


Sucker Punches

by freakylemurcat



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Begging, Body Worship, Cock Warming, Cock Worship, Comeplay, Corsetry, Creampie, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, Dacryphilia, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Facials, Ficlet Collection, Fisting, Food Sex, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Genital Piercing, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, Literally Just Pornography, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Watching, Rimming, Rough Sex, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sexting, Size Difference, Size Kink, Sleepy Sex, Spanking, Strength Kink, Tears, Threesome, Verbal Humiliation, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 38,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: A collection of Megatron/Starscream porntastic ficlets and standalones.Chain of Command - Soundwave struggles to unentangle himself from Starscream and Megatron's nonsense. So he gives up and joins in.





	1. Silver Tongue (Deep-Throating)

**Author's Note:**

> Cybertronian measures of time vs human equivalents:  
> Nanokliks - seconds  
> Klik - minutes  
> Joors - hours  
> Cycles - days  
> Orns - weeks  
> Vorns - years

For a mech normally so noisy, arrogant and just plain difficult in cycle to cycle life, Starscream does become surprisingly biddable on his knees.

They had been bickering, nipping at each other bit by bit by bit all cycle. Starscream has followed him from throne room to conference room to his own quarters, until it had been Megatron's turn to lose his temper, snap and grab a wing in each servo. Starscream had opened his mouth to complain about the rough treatment, and then Megatron had kissed him so hard he drew energon. When they drew apart, the Seeker's sharp chin had been stained fluorescent pink from the fresh nick in a pouty lip.

Megatron would rather like to see that handsome face stained with silver instead.

That and he would really like Starscream to shut the frag up. He's already whining about his newest wound.

"Let me put pressure on it then," he growls and shoves. Starscream buckles to his knees, opens his mouth to complain more and then abruptly goes silent - and slightly cross-optic'd - as Megatron pressurises his spike right in front of him.

"They used to say you were a great orator," says Starscream, with a measure of dry exasperation. “Mechs used to pack on top of each other to listen to your speeches. What happened?”

Megatron leans down, switching his grip to trace a heavy digit down the dripping trail along his chin and throat. "I rather think it's your glossa that's being judged here." He slips his thumb-digit into Starscream's mouth, pressing onto the flexing metal-mesh and then pulling sideways to brace in the corner of his lips, blocking the sharp dentae from closing. He grasps the back of the seeker's helm to pull him in closer.

His spike has mostly pressurised with force of mind, but the sight of his Second on his knees and with his mouth open triggers other protocols that firm the protoform and exude lubricating droplets from the tip. Starscream winces as the mineral salt-rich fluid burns in the split in his lip, but still snakes his glossa out to lap up the excess. When he retracts it Megatron follows with the blunt tip of his spike, and just manages to hold in the groan at the warm, slick heat of a mouth sucking around him. He's content with this for a few moments, letting that nimble glossa trace the protoform ridges and flex over the biolights and nodes that mark his sensitive points, but he finds himself wanting more.

This is the issue with a bot like Starscream; his perpetual need for more is contagious.

Currently, it’s mostly just impacting on Starscream himself. The intake valves at the back of his mouth flutter shut to protect the delicate tubing of his throat when Megatron pushes his hips forward, but they can't do much against the solid weight of a spike and bow backward under pressure. Starscream coughs and murmurs a protest, but not much sound escapes with so much spike blocking his intake. Servos rise to grip Megatron's knees, and he prepares himself to have the cabling at the back of the joint fiddled with to incapacitate him, but the seeker just holds on as his master thrusts into his mouth. It's all the encouragement Megatron needs to push forward a little more with each thrust, until the intake valves flip open at the slightest touch of his spike-head and he can push into his seeker's throat.

The tubing squeezes and rolls down, as if to drag the intrusion to the fuelling tanks below, but all that does is create agonisingly pleasurable suction until Megatron pulls back and breaks the seal. It's too good not to repeat, and this time his spike shoves further, and then the next time and the next time, and soon Megatron's spike is halfway down Starscream's throat. The seeker's vocaliser vibrates and clicks to silence repeatedly as charge dissipates from the conductive proto-metal pushing past it. Both their cooling fans are roaring.

Starscream's olfactory ridge brushes the gunmetal plating of his master's pelvis, optics half-offline. His left servo remains on Megatron's knee, but the right has drifted downwards to play at his own interface array judging by the slick sounds from below. Judging he can run the risk of freeing his thumb from Starscream's denta at this point, Megatron grasps the seeker's neck as he thrusts; below his palm, the cabling shifts and tubing distorts as he frags Starscream's throat. Oral lubricants ooze from around his spike as he thrusts, dripping down Starscream's split lip and over Megatron's pelvic plating, and it’s a wholly undignified mess by the time he realises his overload is creeping up on him.

He drives in harder, pulling Starscream a little taller on his knees to achieve better depth, and remembers a second too late that his initial goal had been to spread his transfluid on the seeker's pretty face. But already his spike is pouring transfluid into eager tanks and his excess charge grounds directly into Starscream's already glitched vocaliser. The rolling, grasping seize of the intake tubing milks his spike until he can no longer stand it and he pulls back abruptly.

Starscream coughs and splutters, and his vocaliser hitches with static when Megatron presses his still stiff spike to his face but he still doesn't complain. He spreads slick across the energon flushed, dark plates - clear oral lubricants and silvery transfluid - until he's satisfied and his spike has started to depressurise. The seeker remains there, kneeling with one servo between his own thighs, even when Megatron steps back to slump onto the berthside.

Even if the silly seeker had precipitated the whole event by being an awkward, irritable glitch, he had still shown remarkable obedience to his master's whims. For some reason Megatron was suddenly feeling generous; obedience deserved to be rewarded after all.

"Your glossa certainly works well enough," he rumbles, and crooks a digit, beckoning Starscream to creep forward. "But why don't you come see what a true silver tongue can do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help, i've fallen down fandom and i can't get up


	2. Backwards Glance (Ass Worship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fashion says big afts are the new thing. Who is Starscream to disagree?

So Starscream likes to update his frame now and again? It’s not the worst thing he's done, not by far; although it makes many of his fellow Decepticons look askance at him.

This too is not that unusual.

Megatron grumbles about vanity and wasted work joors, but other than than that makes no negative comment. Just as it should be. A frame type was not your function. A frame type didn’t necessarily have to be you.

Starscream didn't care to look deeper into why he felt the need to keep changing, keep looking for something he couldn't place. This is wartime after all - it is bad enough he spares the time to make the changes, never mind to open the blast doors on whatever drives him to it.

This change had been designed and built by some little Neutral - Sundown? Starscream had never really learned his name properly - in a slaggy little spaceport too far out of civilised space for anyone to really realise the talent the bot had. Starscream had hunted him out for the very purpose, and now standing in front of the mirrors, flexing his shoulders as his processors amalgamated with the motors, he is pleased he had.

It is gorgeous. _He_  is gorgeous; every inch of the frame is gleaming, curving perfection, built to exacting standards. He brushes a hand down the smooth curve of the elongated cockpit, and then to the dramatically narrowed bite of his waist. Below that his hips are handsomely wide, a new curve applied to his aft and extra breadth to his thighs. It changes his stance, made him stand more wide-legged to avoid the inside of his thighs rubbing together.

Behind him the Neutral bot - Sundimmer? - makes a noise like a tyre deflating from pressure. Starscream understands, he might do something similar if he saw a mech looking like this walk down the street.

"Decent work," says Starscream, letting his processor catch up on the new fresh gears and motors to control. His internal gyroscopes wobble momentarily at the new sway of his widened hips but he is a pro at this by now. Moving like a charge-cobra is second nature, regardless what shape he is.

Sun-something-or-other squawks as the blade of a stowed knife presses up against his neck. He looks startled, like he hadn’t realised mechs could move like this.

"Tell anyone and you die, got it?"

Sun-whatever tries to nod, proving he might be a design genius but probably not a great thinker otherwise.

 

* * *

 

Starscream returns to the Nemesis, feeling smug and handsome for about thirty nanokliks, until he realises that the entry hangar is empty of any mechs to be his admiring audience. There is a single hulking silhouette instead.

Megatron is angry enough at his absence that he has come to hunt him out in person.

"You miserable, work-shy, feckless-" starts the big mech, heavy pedes making the floor tremble as he stomps forward. His Second is forced to take a step back and this brings him directly under an overhead light.

Megatron stops in his tracks.

Not without being quick on the uptake has Starscream risen through the ranks to his current post. Nor without being prepared to take advantage of any opportunities that have come his way. He looks down, as though surprised to find his body in this new form, and splays servos on his cockpit.

"Yes, my liege?" He croons, sliding his servos down slightly, until the tips teetered over the gaps between his pelvic plating and hip joints. Megatron's optics are already there, lenses spiralled wide so he can get a wide-shot of the full picture. To be fair, he might need  this given the new width of Starscream's hips. "Apologies for my absence, my lord," he purrs, "As you can see, I had another reformat performed. What do you think?"

Up until this point, Megatron had been ambivalent at best about his Second's new frames, so this new turn was interesting if not unwelcome. Starscream rolled his servos round, settling them on the outer curve of his hips, and smirked as his suspicions were confirmed. Oh yes, the Mighty Megatron was an aft mech after all.

Handy, now that Starscream had so much of it.

"I'm not too sure," he says absently, half-turning so the curve of his aft and the thickness of his thigh is beautifully displayed, his lifted wing creating a line down like an arrow. "Maybe I should get some armour trimmed down again?"

Something there spurs Megatron into movement. For such a big, heavy mech, he often moves with shocking speed, and Starscream squawks in shock as he's bulldozed back into a pile of crates. Big black servos are already leaving paint transfers on his white paint, gripping and pulling his legs open so his partner can bully his way forward. Megatron's whole frame is charged, vents pouring boiling vapour to condense on Starscream's frame, and he throws his helm back as lip plates suckle along his neck cabling. Everything is new and sensitive, and his interface array onlines with a sharp ping.

"You'll be getting nothing trimmed," the warlord snarls, his engine a low rumble. " Now turn around. I need to inspect what you've brought back to me."

So far, the only way Starscream has ever managed to bring Megatron to his knees is like this. Perhaps it’s not the worship and praise that he been thinking of, but with big servos grasping his hips and a slick glossa tracing the seams at the top of his thigh it might actually be better. Megatron gropes and pets and squeezes, his servos circling Starscream's thighs and pulling them wide apart so he teeters forward against the crates. His servos roam hungrily, acquainting themselves with his new frame - legs heavily and firmer to digit tip, pelvis wider and waist a little nip of a thing, taut with cables. Those big black servos can easily encompasses his waist, Starscream realises with a shiver, propping his elbows on a crate so he can crane his neck down to see what Megatron is doing behind him.

Megatron has moved on, to kiss down the inner seams of his thighs where the metal was well waxed to prevent friction. Starscream groans with the realisation that his new thighs are nearly the breadth of his Master's helm, that if he could summon the wherewithal he could crush that stupid bucket-helm between his legs like this. Instead, his limbs seem to have all gone loose and pliable, as a surprisingly nimble glossa laps into the bundles of wires his his hip joint and sends sparks of charge running directly into his array.

Heavy digits pat against the inside of his pelvic plate and the catches click open embarrassingly fast. His valve is leaking fresh lubricant already, and thick servos dip in briefly. Megatron hums, thoughtfully.

"You have your seal again."

"Everything is new," gasps Starscream. "If you'd given me a joor before throwing yourself at me, I would have popped it myself already."

Megatron's fingers swirl again, drawing out fresh lubricant. "This time, let me implore you to be less selfish."

He huffs. "You think you're popping my seal in this place?!"

A palm pushes up against his valve, rubbing firmly until Starscream is trembling and his body is spilling lubricant on overdrive. The whole servo drags back further and cups his aft instead, warm and firm and slick as the complicated catches on his aft-port plating are undone.

"No. I think I'm fragging you up the aft instead. I will be doing _that_ later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOTYBOOTYBOOTY


	3. By His Own Hand (Masturbation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron knows one fact all too well: if you want something done right, do it yourself.

At some point it had seemed sensible to send Starscream on a covert mission. Megatron is not entirely sure why. The number of reasons this is a terrible idea are nearly inumerable; the second most pressing being that Megatron will have to figure out how to reward the little glitch if he manages to control himself and succeeds.

He's not sure a pat on the back will do - perhaps he should get a medal forged?

The most important reason this is awful is that this means Starscream is absent from the Nemesis. Certainly it is more peaceful, but Megatron goes to berth of a night alone, wakes from recharge alone. There are undoubtedly no shortage of warm frames willing to submit to him, to kneel in front of his throne or pant frantically under his weight, but none of them are _Starscream_.

This is what he finds himself thinking in his private wash-rack, optics shuttered as the warm solvent runs over his facial plates. The heat eases into his protoform slowly, seeping through the seams of his plating and gradually through the heavy armour itself. Finally the tension unwinds from his cables and his plating loosens slightly, so the seams widen and fresh streams of solvent flow through.

Easing open his pelvic plate, he means to give his array a cursory clean but the warmth of the wash-rack is lighting delicate pleasure sensors and his spike and valve are quick to react. For a nanoklik he reaches to the tap, to turn the temperature down a few notches to coax everything back to hibernation, but stays his servo at the last moment. During his hesitation his spike fully pressurises.

It seems a waste to turn down such keen arousal, even if the intended recipient was several light years away.

The solvent isn’t an overly slick lubricant, but it eases the friction of his servo on the delicate protoform and nodes of his spike. Rough treatment has left his palmar surface rough, and he is no mech to polish and buff to a sheen for vanity. Starscream's palms were always varnish smooth and prettily painted; Megatron cannot pretend looking at his own great black fist pumping back and forth, but with optics shuttered... Perhaps after his Second had been scrabbling on a the floor after a failed coup, bowing and scratching for any mercy that the true Lord of the Decepticons might deign to give, his palms would be this rough.

It is a nice thought. Megatron always did like Starscream on his knees. Certainly the chance to touch his spike would be the kindest mercy he would dole out to that traitorous little glitch.

His servo tightens a little. Yes, he would enjoy that. Perhaps on Starscream's inevitable failure, he can scoff and snarl through the seeker's obsequious begging and then take his payment from his body instead... His processor offers any number of previous memories he could recall as filler: Starscream desperately servicing him with that vicious mouth, or bouncing on his spike like a pleasure drone.

His servo is no match for the plush mesh of that tight wet valve, but the memories clogging his processor almost make it worth it. The remembered squeeze and grip, as Starscream had rolled his hips on his triumphant perch over Megatron’s lap, or the lax fluttering after overload as Megatron had bent him over and rode him like a beast.

It is almost enough, but he is just missing that last edge that will drive his charge over. That is the joy of Starscream: his hissing, biting, clawing defiance never fails to ramp Megatron’s charge up that last little bit.

In vague desperation, he pops his valve panel and slips his other servo between his legs. He has never been much of a valve mech, but when his whole array is so primed and the solvent has warmed him below his plating, it is a pleasure to slide his digits between the valve mesh and rub over the external node. His arousal spikes, and he bends forward to lean his helm on the bulkhead as he slips two digits into his valve and strokes his spike.

His processor stuttering with the force of his arousal, an idea swims to the surface - Starscream on his knees again, mouth open and glossa stuck out, ready for Megatron to step forward and frag his face. He would push his now sensitive valve against that devious mouth and hold it in place until he had overloaded. In the here and now, his fingers shove deeper and then draw out, curling at the shallow nodes like a glossa might, and he overloads with a grunt. His valve cycles down and his spike spills thick transfluid over his digits, charge jumping between the protometal arrays to prolong his pleasure.

Finally, he straightens and rubs his hands under the stream of solvent to clean them. His array tingles almost painfully when he completes his cursory wash and tucks everything back under protective panelling. He feels satisfied and fresh, ready to tackle any issue.

Including Starscream returning successful. He’d just come up with an excellent reward after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there were rewards like this for successful missions, the Decepticons would instantly become 200% more efficient. Someone should tell Shockwave.


	4. A Firmer Hand (Spanking)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron offers Starscream some guidance in matters of good behaviour.
> 
> (TW: Mild dubcon, spanking, that sort of thing)

By the time Megatron stands from his throne he realises he has had more than enough of this insubordination.

The seeker is an arm’s length away, still carrying on an argument that has been one sided for more than half a cycle now, and is so self absorbed he doesn't recognise his impending doom until it has already snatched him up.

"Let me you you old fool!" He howls. Megatron has long since turned the sensitivity down on his audials. "This is ridiculous! Are you so insecure? Can you not stand to be challenged?"

Seekers have a lot of superfluous kibble in root mode. Holding one down that doesn't want to be held without ripping bits off is a difficult business. Megatron settles for sitting down heavily on his throne and throwing his armful of misery over his knee, yanking him forward enough that only the tips of his pedes scrabble the ground and then pointedly standing on the servos as they come forward to balance him. Starscream shrieks in rage, and makes to crack the warlord across the face with a wing, but Megatron has played this game before. He snatches at the thin metal and pulls. The shriek dies into a nervous warble.

"So easily silenced," he sneers. He knows from experience how to manipulate the metal in his grasp so that the other wing shoots directly perpendicular from Starscream's back and he can grab them both by the leading edge. He does this, with some malicious glee at the Seeker's nervous shiver as his contact is reduced to his torso balanced on Megatron's thighs. "All I have to do is get you a little unbalanced."

And then he slaps his servo down hard on Starscream's aft.

"You bastard!" wails Starscream, suddenly regaining his glossa. "What are you doing?!"

"Reeling you back in," Megatron snorts, and brings his servo down again, relishing the sting in his palm. “I can see I have let you go without discipline for too long. I had thought it kindness, but you are a mech that needs a firm servo after all.”

Starscream rocks forward, as if trying to save himself, but balanced so precariously he has to contract his abdominal structure to avoid tipping forward onto his face. Megatron spanks him again, and again, and again, just to keep him teetering. By the time he stops, the plating is stinging warm under his touch and Starscream has finally stopped shrieking. "Now. Will you at least try to be civil?"

"Frag you." Starscream's voice is wobbly.

"Maybe you need to count to five to get your temper under control?" he suggests, squeezing a servoful of aft plating. He slithers his digits into the gap of a hip joint and pinches cables until the seeker whimpers and shivers. Energon throbs in a fuel-line under his digits, beating fast in time with an anxious fuel pump.

"Let me up!"

He pinches harder until Starscream bows his back and hisses. "Would you rather count to ten?"

"Stop!"

"We shall start with 'one' and see where we get to then." He delivers a light smack to the curve of Starscream's aft plating. "Come on then!"

It takes a few nanokliks but there's a soft, distinctly sulky, "One."

"Good mech," he croons, and brings his servo down again.

"Two..."

He strikes hard at three, and the Seeker tosses his head back and yowls before he can gasp the number out. Cherry red paint is already stained with black servoprints, and Megatron takes a klik to trace the outline of his own digits. In the interests of symmetry, he adjusts his angle and claps another servoprint across the other half of Starscream's aft.

By five, Starscream is calling the numbers loudly, wheezing loud vents in the interim between each slap. By nine, he's blurting out every number almost before the metallic echoes of the blow have faded and sucking in hitched sobs.

"Ten!" he yelps, and Megatron gives him a klik to get his venting back under control, stroking the heated plating almost kindly, and then, just as he manages to blow out a shaking breath, spanks him again.

"You said ten!"

Megatron grins to himself. "You're an overachiever, Starscream. I think you'd do better with twenty." He waits a beat and adds, "Have you lost count? Do we need to start again?"

"..." Starscream whines to himself briefly. "Eleven."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let your imagination run wild as to whether Megatron cleared the throne room first or not....


	5. Feet On The Stars (Foot Fetish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing like a well turned-out thruster heel to attract a groundpounder.
> 
> (Foot fetish.)

Some mechs say it is cowardice, but Starscream is a firm believer that discretion is the better part of valour. Confronting Megatron about his perverse obsession with seeker legs and thruster heels would have been more trouble than it was worth. If the mech wanted to ogle a well turned out thruster, then Starscream would polish his heels and distract him like a pro. 

That had been the plan. 

At some point, as with many of his plans, the thing had come off the rails slightly. Starscream's processor was just slightly too addled at the moment to figure the exact point, but he would have a thorough self debrief later. After whatever this was was done... 

Lying in Megatron's berth was not wholly unusual. They 'faced on a semi regular basis after all. But normally he would have been with his legs spread wide about square hips, a thick spike driving into his aching valve. This time his legs are tight together, and Megatron is holding him at the ankles, a look of deep concentration on his stupid, handsome face as he thrusts his spike between Starscream's pedes. He has slicked himelf up with lubricating oil, so the slide against Starscream’s polished ankles is easy.

This had not been part of the plan at all. 

There's little pleasure in this for him, but his own spike has half pressurised and his valve throbs in time with the slow dragging thrusts between his pedes anyway. He takes his spike in servo and strokes it to full pressure, rubbing his thighs together to stimulate little sparks of charge near his valve array.

"If you gum up my thrusters," he threatens, surprised to find his voice so breathless already. "We will be having words." 

Megatron grunts, as though he has half heard what was said, and runs a big thumb around the inner rim of the right thruster. The sensors there are calibrated to identify changes in heat and power, not touch, and the sensation is simultaneously numb and overwhelming. 

Starscream claps his free servo to his mouth at the noise that escapes him when the thumb pushes a bit deeper, mapping out the components with a soft touch that is thoroughly alien. He wants to kick out and free himself, but to also push deeper into the sensation. His spike pulses keenly in his palm. 

Megatron pulls the so far less abused pede up, dragging Starscream a little closer across the bed. He mouths softly at the ankle joint, laving his glossae into the wiring until it sparks hotly. Starscream had visited the wash rack that evening - he had been taking extra care of his thrusters as part of this deranged plot - so he knows that his plating and cowling is free of soot or grime that might embarrass him, and only murmurs a half hearted denial but pushes harder into the touch. The sensors in his thruster abruptly light up with hard charge; so much like the good pain of an afterburner firing that he has to glance down hurriedly to ensure he hasn’t accidentally engaged his engines and blasted his master's face with flames. 

Instead he has a full view of Megatron shoving his glossa deep into the cowling, current snapping from the conductive protometal of his mouth to the naive sensors. It’s strange and painful, and so fragging good… The noise that comes out of his vocaliser is thoroughly humiliating - Megatron’s optics glitter with delight behind the fog of lust and Starscream drops his helm back to the berth top so he doesn’t have to see it any more. His thighs start to shake as Megatron continues to explore his thruster with his mouth, and in the mess of confused sensation his servo has stalled on his own spike. He is a wreck, whining and gasping faintly as every sensor is triggered and abused systematically, and it almost startling when his leg is lowered slightly and the sensation of that talented glossa abusing his thruster vanishes. 

He glances down just in time to see the idea cross Megatron’s processor. His own mind is too befuddled to complain, kick or deny the insanity, and so he just lays there and pants as Megatron primes his spike with a pump of a servo and then presses the blunt tip to the thruster cowling. 

The sensors around the rim of his thruster fire confused warning signals at the pressure on the stiff cowling, trailing up to the propelling nozzle at the apex of the housing. Megatron’s spike is big, so barely a quarter fits inside before the tip bumps the nozzle - both of them jolt at the touch - but he groans regardless. 

Starscream’s vocaliser fires static again, but he doesn’t fight the thorough debauching of his pede. Every movement unloads fresh charge into the sensitive equipment, which funnels back up his leg and grounds into his array. Digits are probing the other heel too now, tripping those sensors in addition, and when he tries to stroke himself in time with the touches he remains too addled by the variation in sensation to manage more than a few stilted pumps at a time. Megatron is too interested in his own perverse pleasure, gripping Starscream’s ankle to push his thruster down onto his spike like he was some sort of berth-toy. 

The charge of Megatron’s overload goes off with a snap of energy, grounding instantly into the thruster sensors like an electric shock. It courses up Starscream’s frame, plows through where his limbs’ sensory net coalesces in his pelvis and strikes through his array so hard it feels like fuses blow. He yips with surprises and his spike spills thick fluid over his digits. 

He needs a few moments to regain control of his thoroughly baffled senses, and a few moments more for the sensation to return below his waist. There’s an aching pain in his right heel, and his leg jerks reflexively away. Megatron grunts and lets him go, kneeling on the edge of the berth by his knees and venting hard. 

Starscream watches him cautiously for a moment, trying to play out how he might start to turn this flight of madness into his advantage, when the creeping, cloying feeling of a jet nozzle obstruction starts to creep up his leg. 

Realisation dawns. 

“What did I say about my thrusters?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starscream is grounded from the next flight mission and when Skywarp and Thundercracker find out why both of them miss their launch window for laughing so hard.


	6. Taped Back Together (Corsetry, Injured Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concept of sick leave is anathema to the Deceptions; Megatron still demands service from his Second.
> 
> (Injured sex, corsets)

After the most recent battle with the Autobots, the Decepticons retreat to lick their wounds and celebrate. In terms of loot, they come away successful but few of their number are not injured.

Regardless Megatron looks across his assembled soldiers and finds himself smiling. They are a motley bunch but vicious and strong, still standing despite their scratches and fresh welds. His gaze drifts across the room and alights on a trio of mechs leaning against the wall. Skywarp and Thundercracker flank their trine leader, all three attempting to lean insouciantly and two succeeding more than the other. Starscream had sustained impressive wounds in the fight, was only just fit to leave the medbay and therefore barely in a fit state to be lounging upright.

This is in part due to the medics’ method of getting him out the medbay. In the process of being forcibly grounded through a building, Starscream has shattered multiple spinal struts. Hook has replaced what he can't fix and rewelded the rest, but in desperation to get the grounded Air Commander out of his medbay as soon as possible he has engaged in some invention. The result is a bandage of fine metal mesh about a corset of temporary supports to protect the still soft welds and add strength to the remaining struts. Hook has had to wrap it tightly around Starscream's waist to have the intended effect and the result is... noticeable to say the least.

Starscream has always been slim but now it is nearly grotesque how tight his waist is. His posture is forced tall and straight-backed, almost authoritative but for the pinched pain on his face and then silvery metalmesh bandages around his middle.

Dragging his attention back to centre, and ignoring Soundwave's accusatory stare, Megatron finishes lauding his mechs and sends them on their way. Starscream refuses his trinemates' assistance to move until the throne room has cleared, but then Megatron barks an order for them to leave him and it is clear he regrets his choice.

"My lord," grumbles Starscream, trying to bow obsequiously, as is his grovelling way, and failing instantly. Even his vocaliser sounds tired and worn. "How may I serve you?"

"Can a mech not check on an injured subordinate?" He chuckles at the look of exasperated disgust on Starscream's face plates.  "You look tired, Starscream."

The seeker gesture at the fresh weld marks and the binding about his waist. "I have had a lot to occupy me since our triumphant victory," he sneers. "No peace for the wicked after all."

And he was definitely wicked, thinks Megatron silently. Instead he pats his thigh, beckoning. "Come sit then. Give yourself a break."

"On your lap." Starscream scowls, bracing his servos on his hips. "Are you joking? Right now? I'm _injured_."

"You are still standing," says Megatron calmly. "You have dealt with worse. _I_ have given you worse."

He can't pull his optics away from the corset. Megatron does like how it draws attention to the graceful nip of his waist; the mesh Hook has had to use looks silky against the stripped paintwork underneath. He rubs his servo over his own pelvic plate until the metal is warm with friction and charge and his spike is pinging insistently against the inside of the plate. Starscream watches him with an unreadable expression for a moment and then sighs and shuffles forward. As he limps up the steps to the throne, Megatron transforms his pelvic plate away and smiles as his spike pressurises.

Starscream eyes him, vents noticeably easing open slightly with the start of arousal, but pauses at the top of the plinth as if considering his options.

"If you're tiring you should take a seat," suggests Megatron again, grasping his spike and running his thumb digit over the tip to displace the bead of fluid from the tip. When he lounges down a little lower in the throne his aft bumps over the edge of the seat, and he spreads his thighs wide for balance. "Come."

Starscream edges forward to stand between his thighs, bringing himself into arm's reach. He flinches slightly as Megatron's digits brush his flank, running down the metal mesh of his bandaging, but he opens his valve cover and dips long digits between his thighs to encourage his array to activate. He seems to pause to weigh his options briefly, then rolls his optics and turns about.

Before Megatron has a chance to ask what he is doing, a warm valve opening brushes the tip of his spike. The pleasure of that supple mesh slowly swallowing his spike down is only matched by the sight of Starscream bracing his servos of Megatron's thighs and sitting his pert aft onto his pelvis. When he finally sinks all the way both of them groan with pleasure.

Longing to take hold of Starscream's waist to control the pace, and knowing this would likely end in pain for both of them, Megatron sates himself by hooking the very tips of his digits into the bandages instead. He can pull gently on this, encourage Starscream to settle down a little further or ease up more.

The pace is slow but it means he can savour the slick slide of calipers over his protoform, the drip of lubricant onto his pelvic array.Best of all is the sight of a beautiful seeker trying to serve him. In front of him are broad beautiful wings, strong shoulders and then the angular curve of his waist. The corset is as soft against his rough servos as he had imagined, and he can pull it tighter still when he tugs on the fabric. He does so - until the temporary supports dig harder and bend to a more acute angle - and pulls the seeker in as tightly as possible to grind them together. Every inch of his spike sinks in to sweet scalding heat, mesh rippling in long undulating strokes about him. Instinctively his hips drive up harder, to get every possible bit of sensation he can, and something under Starscream's corseting _snaps_.

The valve around his spike clenches down with something other than pleasure and doesn't release, tight enough to be uncomfortable. Starscream's servos squeeze, driving talons into Megatron's thigh plating, and his whole frame goes stiff with pain.

"It _hurts_..." he hisses, trying to straighten up. Megatron keeps his digits hooked into the bandaging and does not let him, but releases some of the tension in the corset. Whatever it is that had snapped shifts with a metallic grating noise. "I can't move!"

Shushing him, reluctant to let go of this beautiful frame, Megatron slips his servos around his waist and pulls him gently but inexorably backwards. Starscream tenses with pain, cursing him soundly at the movement, but when he's settled back against Megatron's broad chest the tension seeps from him. With some careful repositioning Megatron finally has the Seeker laid back over his own frame, thighs draped over the outside of his own, now closed, legs.

Like this, the interface is more of a slow continued grind, letting the charge build slowly between their primed arrays as Starscream lolls his head back on Megatron's shoulder and places his servos over the bigger ones exploring his frame. They trace chest turbines, dip into the gaping open slats of flank vents, rub over the soft metal mesh of the bandages.

Underneath, much of the plating is still delicate with with welds and so much more sensitive. Megatron trails his digits over every raised line he can reach, until Starscream's frame is brimming with charge. He keeps up the languorous rock of their bodies together, gritting his denta at the tortuous build of pleasure in his array and finally Starscream  tips over into overload with a heartfelt groan.

He really slumps into Megatron's grasp, turning his face into his throat cables to mouth weakly there, his vocaliser issuing soft satiated crackles. This is permission enough for Megatron to grasp a little tighter at his waist and lift his aft a little so he has just that more space to frag in harder. The valve around his spike clenches weakly but Starscream is done, both from his overload and his wounds. Megatron thrusts in as hard as he can and groans as his charge spikes, driving his spike in to the hilt and spilling his transfluid deeply.

He slumps back to the throne, letting Starscream drop back against his chest. Starscream, normally keen to leap up and fly away after interface, does not show any inclination to move. His frame, draped over Megatron’s in a show of utter decadence, clinks softly as his cooling fans blow out the last of the excess heat. Megatron’s spike gradually depressurises out of his valve; he hisses but still makes no move.

Megatron would not be inclined to complain, but they _are_ in the throne room and he’s received two chiding messages from Soundwave already. As such he suggests Starscream might want to hurry on his way.

“I told you,” growls Starscream. “I _can’t_ _move_.”

* * *

"Out of commision for _how long_?!" Megatron bellows.

Unimpressed, Hook grabs another set of titanium struts and primes his welder; a bright stream of sparks dribbles to the ground and Megatron is forced to grudgingly step back. Starscream, sprawled on the medical berth, rolls his optics.

"Five cycles until the rewelds set. Two broken welds and a whole bunch of internal misalignment. I won't ask how, but next time please, my lord, be more careful with my patients."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron totally pretends he's annoyed at this turn of events, but is actually really just smug that he's fragged Starscream hard enough to break his back.


	7. Energy Efficiency (Dacryphilia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Decepticons are running out of fuel, and Starscream has just run out of patience.

The Nemesis is running low on energon. Everyone is on severely reduced rations, regardless of station, and therefore tempers are running thin.

Megatron’s frame is huge but designed to be ultra-efficient above all else. He has known privation and hunger before, and he has too much dignity to submit to the crushing pangs in his tanks. Many of his fellow grounder frames are similarly efficient. Flight-frames on the other servo...

Used to rich energon in high quantities, the Seekers are falling to pieces, Starscream at their helm. Megatron’s Second always has a pinched, starved look on his facial plates these days, and his atrocious temper is infinitely worse.

It is somehow Soundwave that finally makes Starscream snap, which is probably not the former’s intention. Megatron is summoned to the mess by a series of increasing desperate hails from various members of his army, and arrives to find Hook helping Soundwave to his feet and three other seekers attempting to hold back their incandescently irate Air Commander.

Deplete as they are, the seekers are struggling; so Megatron wades in and grabs Starscream by the scruff of the neck. This is turn redirects the force of nature that his Starscream throwing a tantrum onto him, but Megatron has practise and thick armour. It does rather distract him from Hook’s explanation of events - Soundwave’s rebuke at a presumably stupid action on Starscream’s part had gone down poorly, and now the communication’s officer has a broken servo and probably a processor ache from being dragged to the floor.

“Soundwave: advises mercy,” says the mech in question, swaying only slightly between two Constructicons. “Starscream: addled by starvation. Requires careful handling.”

Megatron is about to suggest that Starscream has once again caused mayhem in the pursuit of his own selfish desires and therefore would be the mech least deserving of mercy, if it existed as a Decepticon concept. Which it didn’t until he glanced down and realised that Starscream is so deeply angry he is _crying_.

It is a poor word for the phenomenon, borrowed from the Autobots' encounters with humanity and then transmitted to the rest of the Cybertronians. The outpouring of emotion has caused the seeker’s optics to light up with a huge surge of energy, and in desperation to protect the delicate components - lenses, irises, mirrors all easily warped by the localised heat - coolant is dripping forth.

Megatron’s spark clenches uncomfortably, his processor stirring some protective, warped protocols that start to change his flow of energy. He cannot begin to explain why he is affected so. Ignoring the sudden pang behind his pelvic plating, he waves Hook to take Soundwave to the medbay and dismisses the rest of the onlookers carelessly. Starscream is still dangling in his fist, and as soon as the mess clears of mechs he starts to vocalise his distress as his vents stutter to suck in air, tricked by the signals from his overheated optics. It’s an ugly sound, but somehow goes straight to Megatron’s array regardless.

“You are a mess,” Megatron says, and means it. This does not improve the volume of Starscream’s sobbing. “Oh stop it.”

Starscream’s vocaliser - not one to issue particularly pleasant sounds at the best of times - issues a screech that is akin to someone shoving a servoful of slate into a chainsaw. Amid the nearly incomprehensible glyphs is a lot of complaints about being hungry. Megatron just rolls his optics and shoves Starscream backward, until he has no choice to sit on a bench or topple over.

“Stay put,” he commands and crosses to the dispenser. All private units had been disconnected, to prevent industrious little geniuses from playing the system and taking more than their share of rations. Megatron alone has an override code, and decides now is a time to abuse it to pour two cubes. Across the room, Starscream’s vents have stabilised but there is still a steady stream of coolant trailing down his cheeks. Megatron calculates some options and then pours a third.

He sips his own energon  slowly, watching with a smirk as Starscream throws the first cube back like it was high-grade and not the weak low-grade they had left. The next cube goes down slightly slower, starvation sensitive tank clearly responding to the fresh energon. Every inch of Starscream is lit up with tension even after refuelling, right into his EM field, and he scuffs at his face to try to wipe the coolant away like it will hide his emotions. He’s burning with obvious humiliation and no small amount of rage - all this does is trigger more of that strange, hungry protocol in Megatron’s processor.

Starscream often runs emotionally hot after all, and is know nearly universe wide for his variability in mood. There have been many times that joy, envy or lust had flipped into another. Taking advantage of this had resulted in multiple pleasurable encounters for Megatron; he suspects he can turn this to his benefit as well.

Now actively avoiding Megatron's gaze, Starscream finishes his second cube and slaps it onto the table. He's still brimming with anger, whole frame alive with it. His wings are hiked up, his talons clenched and still his optics burn bright crimson and when he spits his excuses his voice seethes. Megatron is not keen to let him escape that easily and mirror him when he stands, moving to block his path and loom into his space.

"You're burning up…. Let me help get rid of all that energy," he murmurs, turning Starscream's helm and kissing him before he can response. His lip plates taste faintly of coolant and energon, and he squawks in horror against the touch.

"Frag you," snarls Starscream, his ire not yet wholly cured. He tosses his helm and avoids the next kiss to wipe at his face again. Megatron catches his arms to stop him and leans in again. He nuzzles into the mech's throat, finding cables to nip and lapping into wiring until it sparks. Starscream growls, but some of the tension eases from his frame.

The sharp edges of his EM field start to blunt, but never loses the pent energy. By the time Megatron has nipped back up to the Seeker's mouth, his field is starting to open and roil with building arousal instead. This time when he pushes, Starscream goes more or less as bidden and knocks into one of the tables. He tries to resist, but this is cursory and Megatron soon presses him to the tabletop.

Here Megatron blankets him, presses him to the metal surface and kisses him firmly. He likes this feeling of power, of being a barrier of protection over a smaller, prettier mech. That old protocol is still running in his processor, the strange urge to protect and maintain mixing with his memories of shagging Starscream silly to create a seething lust. Beneath him Starscream writhes and grumbles, his pelvic panels starting to heat as he succumbs. Megatron rubs his digits through hip seams, tweaking wires until the panel snaps open and he can slip his servo along soft mesh instead. As his charge starts to build, Starscream's optics well with coolant again and his vents sob, but Megatron grants him no more than two of his digits rubbing the opening to his valve, purposefully brushing the anterior node in a rhythmic grind.

Before long Starscream is gasping and moaning, his thighs squeezing tight together as his charge peaks and his overload shivers through his frame. His optics briefly offline with the burn of energy, but there's just too much to shed with just one overload. There's much more he can dissipate through more intimate methods.

He bulldozes his way between spread thighs and wastes no time in fitting his spike to that ready valve. They fit together well, and he sinks through the slick mesh to the root. Starscream sighs and rubs at his cheeks again as a fresh runnel of coolant spills over in time with the new spike of arousal in his field. Megatron leans down and laves it away with his tongue; Starscream screeches in prudish horror but his frame tells a different story. His valve clenches and his optics burn brightly, vents clicking on and off in a frantic sob, his legs curling around Megatron’s waist to encourage the rhythm. More coolant runs over and Megatron grinds his hips forward, protocols commanding him to sink deep, to loom close, to protect.

Starscream is no way in need of protection, but at this moment Megatron's processor could not have cared less. He adjusts his stance to better frag Starscream with long deep thrusts that must pummel into often neglected deep sensor nodes judging by the shudders of his frame and the fresh drips of coolant.

They’ll be there for a while, he decides right then. Clearly he has a lot of energy burning yet to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDEK, turns out a crying kink is a thing. Megatron would defs have one, just putting it out there.


	8. To The Victor (Hate-sex, Angry Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they lose, they lose hard. 
> 
> (TW: hate-fucking, rough sex, ?dub-con, Starscream and Megatron being themselves.)

Mechs scatter when Megatron lands in the hanger, denta bared and servos curled into fists. Nanokliks later the Elite trine skids to a halt and transforms out of alt-mode elegantly, coordinated. Somehow this makes Megatron more angry - that this trio of jokers could be so in-tune now when it didn’t matter...

Skywarp and Thundercracker flee, not even pausing to make excuses. Starscream howls after them, "Cowards!"

" _You!_ " Megatron thunders, striding forward to loom into the miserable glitch's personal space. "Do not get to talk about _cowardice_!"

Starscream snarls at him, his wings lifted and spread to make himself look bigger, more threatening. One of his ailerons is smoking from a blaster burn, and his olfactory ridge is probably not in the correct alignment after Ironhide had punched him in the face. One of his servos is missing the first two talons - left embedded in the bigger mech's armour just before the aforementioned punch.

"You expect me to follow your half-forged idiotic plans?" Starscream shrieks back, sticking his injured digits in his mouth to tamp the oozing fuel cables.

"Because your disobedience worked so much better?!" He slams his fist into a bulkhead, hard enough to feel his arm joints creak. His shoulder burns fiercely where Prime's axe had bitten into his armour, and the tart stink of his own energon is all pervading.

Starscream spits a mouthful of energon into his face.

Roaring in rage, Megatron lunges. Starscream makes to dodge, but they're too close for him to make much headway and Megatron's fist catches the edge of a wing. Instantly he has armfuls of hissing, lethal Seeker. The remaining talons claw deep gouges across Megatron's cheek, just missing his optic, and a thruster burns a hot circle into one of his shins. They grapple, but Megatron has the advantage in close combat in both mass and experience. As long as he can keep Starscream in his grasp, he'll win.

He drives the seeker down to the floor, denting the metal  by Starscream's head with a punch. The seeker snarls rabidly again, and brings both knees up in a underhanded attempt to dent Megatron's pelvic panel in, but he's too used to the nasty fighting of the gladiatorial pits to fall for it. He twists at the right moment, and flings Starscream to the side, sending him crashing into the bulkhead.

They twist back to fighting positions instantly, both of them wide-optic'd and engines revving hard with the effort. Starscream's mouth has twisted into a nasty smirk, Megatron's a similar rictus as they eye each other. He wants to leave more marks and leaps again with a target in mind but now Starscream is distant, and he moves like a missile, darting and twirling just out of his grasp.

"Come here you little glitch!" he roars, and abruptly oversteps, straining the wound from Prime's battleaxe and falling to a knee. His vents stall briefly. He can't deny it hurts.

"You should learn how to dodge," says Starscream, encouraged to settle back to the ground and prowl closer. Megatron clutches to the dripping wound on his shoulder and focuses hard on the puddle of energon forming under his bent frame. "The Mighty Megatron brought low-"

He chokes mid-word as Megatron grabs him by the throat and drives him to the ground beneath him. Starscream doesn't learn either. At least both of them are equally stupid in that regard. 

"I doubt you'll be teaching me," he growls. Starscream howls as his virgin wing is gripped and dented, in a slow twisting movement that shears into the joint and crumples thin metal. "Not for a while."

Starscream lunges up and kisses him.

Or bites him. It's difficult to say, but Megatron responds in kind until his glossa is slick with the taste of energon and his lips are split and bruising. His rage is not gone, but mangled with the attraction that colours so many of their interactions. Starscream is a traitor, a coward and an absolute liability but he was also beautiful. The wretched creature knew it too.

"Put your spike near my dentae, I beg you," growls Starscream. "It'll be great for both of us."

Megatron snorts and flips the crazy glitch onto his front, grasping the more wounded wing as leverage. "All you get here is your well-deserved comeuppance."

That bowed back in front of him, the curve of that aft and the spread of those wounded wings is glorious. The power from his engines diverts to his interface array with barely a second thought. As his spike pressurises -and isn't he glad he had avoided that groin shot earlier - he grips the front edge of Starscream's pelvic plate and wrenches it clear away.

This earns him a yowl and a struggle that leaves them winded again - only pausing with Megatron's servos both gripping his wings and drawing his frame back slowly, slowly. His spike nudges the plush mesh lips of the seeker's valve, making both of them tremble with the sudden increase in charge, and then Starscream suddenly changes tack. He slams his hips back, taking the thick spike in to the root in one fell swoop and shrieking like he's been mortally wounded.

For a nanoklik, Megatron's frame is stunned with the sheer sensory input, and his processor rushes with static. Mismatched sets of claws digging into his thighs bring him back to reality, where he has his Second in Command writhing angrily on his spike and cursing him for more. He obliges, but not out of kindness.

Megatron changes his grip to the slim waist in front of him, squeezing until Starscream snarls in pain and claws at his fists instead. It makes little difference; Megatron plows into the sweet grip of his valve and bites his lip to prevent from groaning. Under prepared and tense with his own anger, Starscream's valve is tight and hot around his spike, mesh giving way to the brutality of his thrusts. On a particularly deep push, Starscream yowls and tries to twist away but Megatron shoves at the middle of his shoulders and drives his chest to the floor, pinning him down as he frags him like a cheap pleasure drone.

Despite his cruelty, Starscream moans and gasps in vicious pleasure. His valve starts to drip lubricant, and when Megatron looks down to watch his spike glisten with new slick as he thrusts. This does not slow or change his lust, if anything he must work harder to truly get the response he wants - vocalisations that are more choked static than pleasure.

Distantly, he realises that Statscream has truly buckled the floor, held up mostly by Megatron's fists on his hips. The valve he is so thoroughly destroying spasms weakly around his spike, and Starscream's fans whine at their highest setting as he shudders with overload. Megatron holds him up and continues to plough in, building his own charge into an inescapable peak. He buries himself deep amd snarls as he overloads, bending down over the Seeker's still shuddering form to demonstrate who was in true control here. The thought drives a secondary small charge from his pelvic array, tingling sensitive protometal, and he has to drive himself away else he shows weakness. He staggers as he regains his pedes.

He stands over Starscream's lolling frame as he carefully tucks his spike array back behind its housing and his pelvic panel. There are tracks of translucent lubricant all across his pelvis and thighs, stained with the faint luminescent pink of energon from the ferocity he had taken Starscream with. His frame still crackles with the echoes of his overload, but his processor feels clear and cold in comparison.

He feels exactly no better than before they had had their fight. It's like this every time.  He should learn, but with Starscream he falls into old traps every time.

For his own part Starscream carefully rolls over, shifting from the damp patches to run the remaining digits on his injured servo through the swollen mesh of his pelvic array. His pelvic cover is discarded nearby and requires some careful bending so he can fit it loosely back over his abused valve.

"You pit-spawned son of a glitch," says Starscream, gingerly clambering to his pedes. He wipes his face with his mutilated servo, just spreading further energon across his mouth. Both wings hang limply against his back.

Megaton snorts and catches the seeker's sharp chin, wiping his thumb digit through the mess. "Disobey me again..." He leaves the threat incomplete, suddenly unsure exactly what he would do differently.

Starscream seems less than threatened - more  discontented, much like his master. He traces a suddenly gentle digit against the deep talon marks he had inflicted down Megatron's facial plates and croons his response against Megatron's mouth. “And we'll end up right back here again, my lord.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes for this one read simply 'Megatron destroys some valve because he's a poor loser.'


	9. Higher Power (Strength Kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream really likes big mechs; not all big mechs like Starscream in return.

Megatron is a huge broad mech, strong and deadly and massive. It isn't something that escapes Starscream's attention. Starscream has watched him throw mechs hundreds of metres, pick others up by the throat or crush them into the ground. He’s been on the receiving end of both more than once.  Every demonstration triggers a little squirming charge in his fuel tanks but he can shrug it off. Sometimes he takes a second look now and then.

He’s always liked big mechs anyway.

And then something goes wrong on a raid. They had been planning to be in and out of the facility easily, laden down with all the blasters and guns they could scavenge. But they had overreached and the Autobots were starting to tire of their attempts. Starscream had found himself realizing it was a trap and sensing the depth charges fire at the same time.

When he had soared back to consciousness he had been buried under most of the roof and levels above him, wholly pinned in place and hurting. One of his optics blinked on and off, casting his cave of wreckage in flickering blurry light. He had tried to free himself, but the weight of the wreckage had been too great. Trapped, he had had to try hard not to let fear consume him entirely, when light had seeped in from above.

It had been Megatron's silhouette above him, a great slab of wall held easily over his head as he peered down into the pit Starscream was entombed in. He had tossed the wreckage aside as easily as if it was light as a circuit board and had gone on to bend an iron bar trapping one of Starscream’s wings nearly in half.

Starscream had been almost grateful that the pain of being moved had offlined his processor at that point. He wouldn’t want anyone else to know what he had been thinking.

It had been like a switch had been flipped. He had been left with  a terrible, desperate compulsion, that waited until the worst possible moment to strike. Starscream had blamed it on the blow he had obviously sustained to the head, but unlike  post-concussion glitches this had not faded.

He had endeavoured to relieve the itch as best he could with what else was available...

* * *

Fighting Decepticons comes with multiple risks. Obviously the risk of death and serious injury ranks high, but a more obscure occupational hazard is becoming obvious.

Ratchet looks horrified, as shocked as ever Optimus has seen him. They had taken a risk letting their Chief Medic onto the battlefield but every mech had been needed to counter this particular raid and it had paid off right until the Elite Seekers had arrived.

Thundercracker was deadly with that sonic blast and Skywarp was a terrifying imp if his warp capability was online but it had been, as ever, their Trine leader who had been the main issue.

“I just picked Sunstreaker up off the ground,” mumbles Ratchet. “And then that blasted jet was perched on my shoulder.” He shudders.

Optimus sympathises. He has been there, innocently wielding his battle axe and then suddenly finding himself with a suddenly over amorous seeker darting into his personal space, all sharp dentae and charged null rays. He knows Ironhide has been a startled victim too, almost too surprised by the taloned digits scraping down his forearm to fight the seeker off, and directs Ratchet to him for a debrief and a cube of high-grade to soothe the disconcertion.

He himself has an appeal to an unlikely ally to make.

* * *

Skywarp accepts that power is attractive. Personally he prefers a little bit more in the way of personality but given Starscream’s own deficits in that area it seems fair that his Trine leader might need to focus on something else.

It had been bad enough whenever it had been that _shuttle_ , before the war had started, but since the munitions factory incident it had become a problem.

Starscream might set his targets on something more achievable, rather than spending so much time flirting with whichever hot mech was nearest. His most recent targets have included Autobots for Primus’ sake, and there are tens of massive, hot Decepticons that Skywarp himself wouldn’t mind climbing like a thermal vortex.

Thundercracker keeps shrugging like this is a totally acceptable flaw for a Decepticon to have, but Skywarp can only see problems.

Luckily someone else higher up the command chain has already identified this, and Skywarp is happy to play his part in the ideal solution.

* * *

Starscream should know better by now than to trust Skywarp. He is innocently tinkering with his latest experiment when his trinemate appears from nowhere, reaches out and says, “Hold this.”

 _This_ turns out to be Skywarp’s servo, and it follows he ends up teleported halfway across the Nemesis, left in a small storage room with two dark shapes.

Skywarp will not survive the cycle if Starscream has anything to do with it. Lucky for him his warp drive has enough juice to 'vop' him away before he gets grabbed and strangled.

Megatron’s stupid, grumpy handsome face looms down into Starscream's personal space. Behind him Soundwave is subtly stepping backwards out of the door; even through his visor Starscream can tell he has been sharing information that was not his to share.

“Advice: Starscream should be honest,” he intones and then adds, “For once.”

Starscream creates an inventive curse to suggest Soundwave's ancestry probably includes a long line of toasters. Aggravatingly the Communications Officer ignores him and says. “Room: soundproofed. Cycle schedule cleared for both. Soundwave: requests that this issue is dealt with, Lord Megatron.”

“Yes, thank you Soundwave,” grunts Megatron, waving a dismissive servo. He has not backed away from Starscream one step. “I shall tackle this from here.”

Soundwave bows his head and leaves, with a pneumatic hiss of the door locking behind him.

Even if Starscream could get past Megatron's bulk he'd have to blast through the door to escape. When he looks up at the other mech though there is no anger on his face, just a slow, thoughtful expression.

“Why do you persist in making trouble for yourself?” he rumbles. Starscream is suddenly very aware of how close they are, how small the room is. Every inch of space seems to be occupied by Megatron’s huge frame. His cooling vents threaten to rattle to life.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he says, which is mostly true. He’s been behaving lately - even his latest explosive endeavour is to benefit rather than overthrow the Decepticon cause.  

Megatron snorts. “This predilection for big mechs is going to get you in more hot water than you might think.”

Everyone keeps surprising Starscream today and he does not like it one bit. “What?!”

A forearm braces on the wall by his head, and Megatron leans further in. Heat from his rumbling engine seethes onto Starscream’s cockpit, but does nothing to ease the shivers suddenly wracking his frame. “You have a type, Starscream, and you are not subtle. _Skywarp_ has noticed. Shockwave has noticed and he is not even _here_. When Soundwave has to field comms from _Prime himself_ asking to reign in your flirting with his soldiers, we can safely say you have failed at subterfuge.”

Starscream can’t deny it. He tries anyway, even though one set of his talons are hooked into the front of Megatron's bulky chest. “You are delusional.” He continues to spoil it when his other servo slides down to grope over hot carburettors and then round to feel up a boxy firm aft. The feel of a thick thigh under his servo makes his processor run twice as slowly. He has seen Megatron drive mechs to the ground with a knee to the neck - those big thighs a force to be reckoned with. Paint peels in slivers under his nails as his digits clench subconsciously.

Massive servos slide down and grasp his hips, lifting him up with devastating ease, hydraulics bunching and shifting. Starscream doesn't even have to hold on to aid the effort and he has no hope of even cursory resistance. His legs wrap around the big mech's trim waist as he's lifted away from the wall and he hisses as the vibrations from a revving engine reverberates through his pelvic plate. He's been with bigger mechs, stronger mechs, but Megatron is a class of his own. He has no need for showy theatricals to show off his strength: he just _is_.

“Tell me you don't like it,” challenges Megatron.

Everything about this promises power and Starscream has pretended for long enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Starscream's buff-mech dilemma is not his alone. There are some seriously thicc Cons and Bots out there.


	10. Red Eyed Monster (Cuckolding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron isn't great at sharing his playthings, but it's nice to dream.

The first time it happens Megatron thinks little of it. Perhaps it starts as plain jealousy; when Starscream finally gives up a doomed seduction attempt and growls "Fine. I bet Thundercracker will be up for some fun." 

His datapad develops a mysterious crack, as all he can think of is poor put-upon Thundercracker bending to his trine leader’s whims and bowing his head to lap at an eager valve. A handsome blue and black spike that is not Megatron's own pumping Starscream's pretty valve full of transfluid. Starscream smug and sated, and Megatron still in this hateful dark war room with nothing more than his anger to warm him.

He frags Starscream hard over the table, until there are claw marks in the metal and Starscream is a lax leggy mess across the part of the map meant to represent Autobot territory. Megatron finds it pleasing the biggest spill of transfluid is directly over the Autobot base.

* * *

The second trigger also escapes Megatron's processor, when he passes by the hangar on an off-shift.

His Elite Trine have just returned from patrol and he finds Starscream with Skywarp half sprawled over him, both shedding vast quantities of searing air after their recent flight. He stands to watch for a second, as long Seeker legs entwined and pretty wings fluttered to keep their flight sensitive surfaces apart. His processor fires forth a half constructed image of the same dance on a berth top, Starscream's blue thrusters leaving paint transfers across Skywarp's shins as they pushed together, sleek frames overcharged and burning. What could Megatron do to compare with that beautiful picture?

He attributes his keenness to pound Starscream into his own berth top that night as a sensible reaction.

* * *

 For such a screechy, ridiculous mess of a mech, Starscream remains a remarkable schemer. Perhaps he spots something in these encounters that Megatron himself cannot see. Certainly he is quick to turn it to his advantage.

"I think I should give those Coneheads a reward at some point," he grumbles after a successful set of raids. He already looks a picture, fresh polish on his wings and arms crossed to highlight the breadth of his torso. "What could I give the three of them at once? I don't want to damage anything..."

After Megatron finishes choking on the mouthful of freshly liberated energon he had just taken, he deems the Coneheads’ reward to be three extra cubes of high grade each and their choice of patrol routes for the next orn. Definitely nothing to do with the thought of Dirge and Thrust pinioning their ever so grateful Air Commander between them, pounding his aft with heavy spikes while their trinemate gets the full benefit of Starscream's nimble glossa.

He himself claims that reward wholly and repeatedly.

"You like it," sighs Starscream afterwards, as he lolls on Megatron's berth and absently strokes the swollen soaked mesh of his valve with delicate digits.

"Mmm?" Megatron's processor is demanding a good defrag. He can just about manage to roll his helm to the side. "Like what?"

Rolling to his knees and sliding his frame up Megatron's, Starscream rubs a lubricant slick thumb over Megatron's bottom lip. He tastes of rich saline and bismuth. "The idea of me with other mechs. It gets you excited."

This is an unfair conversation to have to try to have when his processor is overclocked six ways from Cybertron.

"No one touches what is mine," he growls.

Starscream huffs a laugh and sits up on his haunches, wings casting them into deep shadow and aft bumping Megatron's housing, spike only just depressurised. "Oh no. But doesn't get that big engine of yours revving to think of me under someone else, and you unable to do anything but watch as I get what I want?" He slides his servos down his tight waist, touching his own spike housing and drifting further to his anterior node. Megatron's engine is grumbling already. "Mighty Megatron brought low by his Second getting fragged by whoever he fancied?"

The berth shakes with the force of his engine snarling. Starscream smirks nastily.

"Who would you like to think of?" He purrs. "You've had your sordid little fantasies about my trine already I'm sure. Soundwave wouldn't touch me. What other Decepticon would dare 'face me if they knew your wrath was oncoming?" He strokes his spare servo over Megatron's abdomen, where his carburettors are brewing fresh heat. "Would I have to appeal ton a Neutral? Some boring little merchant bot looking for a rush?"

Megatron had not realised this was how he was going to die, as his frame lit up with a raging charge and his fuel pump hammered with jealousy at the thought of some nameless, faceless bot riding his Second, frame alit with the delight of fragging such a terrifying warrior. His spike somehow finds the will to pressurise for the third time that night.

"No..." says Starscream thoughtfully, lifting slightly and tilting his hips so the outer lips of his valve settle over the underside of that spike and trap it firmly against Megatron's belly. He grinds his hips forward and back and shivers at the friction on his nodes. "No, I don't think that's quite good enough. Maybe it should be an Autobot instead? Would you want them guilty and terrified, or smug and triumphant?"

"They should be triumphant," he gasps, horrified to be contributing to his own degradation but unable to hold back further. His spike is trapped between plump soft mesh and the raging heat of his own frame and Starscream's devious hips grind agonising pleasure from him. "Delighted to get one over on me like this, and I can do nothing..." His processor stutters. The Neutral in his imagination is now Ironhide, Ratchet, Prowl...

"Every time you fragged me after that all you would remember is your own humiliation," gasps Starscream, "Every noise you drag from me hadn't that Autobot scum managed it twice as easily? Would you stuff your spike in me after and think of the one that had been there before?..."

Unbidden, Prime's image arrives in Megatron's processor and he can think of little else. Now the picture achieves full technicolour glory, of Starscream astride Prime's huge lap, navy servos dragging him up and down a thick, hard spike, absolutely ruining his tight little valve like he was a toy.

Megatron's engine roars with rage and lust. He grasps Starscream's waist where those foreign servos had gripped in his processor and lifts, sheathing his spike in that hot valve in a single move. Starscream wails like his world is ending and overloads hard. Megatron pounds up into almost too slick mesh only a few more times and then overloads with such force his processor reboots.

As he onlines again, processor even more overclocked and laboured, there remains one thought above all else. He can distantly feel Starscream topple to his side, landing on the berth with a muffled curse, and reaches out to drag the lighter frame into his own.

“You are mine,” he growls, vocaliser garbled with static. “If anyone touches you they die.”

Starscream leans up and kisses him, somehow managing to be agreeable and condescending in the same moment. Megatron is not entirely reassured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next Con Vs Bot battle, Optimus is taken aback by how vicious Megatron is this cycle and totally misses the suggestive servo gestures Starscream is making behind his back.


	11. Say Please (Begging, Handcuffs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere Starscream had found a set of stasis cuffs.

Somewhere along the line, Starscream has managed to get his servos on a set of stasis cuffs. He doesn't recall when he had found them; the power packs are low and they generate only a small stasis field, but they still do the trick nicely. He had snapped them over Megatron's wrists, shoved him onto a chair and proceeded to delight in having the old fool at his mercy.

He starts slowly, keeping himself well back in case the cuffs are weaker than he had been expecting and Megatron could burst loose. After the first few moments of futile rage, however, the big mech calms and tries to talk his way out of the situation. It would be laughable if Starscream hadn't suddenly seen how he wants this to go.

So he prowls around and brushes delicately against heavy armour, sating himself with brief touches and short replies. Megatron growls his annoyance, but continues to purr sweet nothings. His vocaliser has begun to jump at the soft brushes to his shoulders and back when Starscream finally scraped a talon down the centre of his chest and his engine roars with arousal. The look of gritted humiliation of his face plates is sweet to see.

"Beg," coos Starscream, leaning in to whisper in a audial.

"You are overreaching, Starscream," warns Megatron, but his engine continues to rumble. When Starscream slithers a servo down his front to grope his thick waist, his carburetors are scalding hot.

"I think I've set a very sensible goal," says Starscream, scraping his claws up the metallic ridges to create slivers of silver paint. "I want to hear you beg for me."

Even as his frame sets to betraying him, Megatron's processor stands firm. It would be frustrating if Starscream didn't know how delicious breaking the mech to his will would be in the end.

"I might ask for a reprieve from your wittering," he complains, "But I think that is where we will be stopping."

Starscream disagrees thoroughly, but rather than entering into a war of words - he never wins anyway - he engages in a more physical warfare. He traces every seam and joint in the mech's heavy plating, dipping talons into seams to stir through the masses of cables. He squeezes bulky treads, and slicks his servos on greased hydraulics. Megatron sits very still, grits his jaw and suffers in silence until a questing digit pushes into a vent space along a thick abdomen. This earns a sharp ex-vent and a full body shiver.

It's delightful.

"You'll sound so good moaning for me," sighs Starscream, draping himself over Megatron's big shoulders and nuzzling his jawline. He can almost hear the energon boiling in the mech's fuel lines. Rage or lust, it's delicious regardless. 

"Keep hoping." Megatron reclenches his jaw, but now that that one small noise has escaped him it is all the easily to elicit more. Starscream plays with the same seams and cables, and hunts down delicate sensors to pluck between his talons until Megatron's huge arms are trying to strain at the cuffs, the stasis just strong enough to hold him.

Starscream steps forward and lets one of those paralysed servos brush the front of his own pelvic plate, so his master can feel how hot and bothered he himself is. He's pleased to feel the weak twitch of digits, hear the hum of Megatron's fans speed up a gear.

He creeps around the chair to half curl himself into the cradle of Megatron's sprawling legs, to rub against a big broad chest and grope those carburettors until the paint is melting off his palms. "Even a please would be a good step," he says.

The range of emotion that flickers across the big mech's face is a wonder to watch before his mouth relaxes and he says, "Please."

It's almost as good as Starscream had imagined and it's only the faintest of cracks in this noble facade. He shivers with delight and leans in closer, until his cockpit scrapes on heavy armour. "Say it again."

"Please," sighs Megatron, sounding less put-upon and a little more honest. Starscream digs his talons into broad thighs and pivots to straddle his waist. Mild progress was better than nothing.

In two joors, Megatron has been reduced a mess. Starscream has unlatched his array panels, freed his spike to full pressure and rubbed delicately at his anterior node with talons and glossa. The mech has his helm tossed back, facial plates slack in pleasure as he's toyed with, his whole frame jerking and fighting the hold of the stasis cuffs. It's beautiful. The only thing better is the spill of words from his vocaliser, soft suggestions for what he wants Starscream to do. Perhaps it’s a more authoritative equivalent of pleading, but it's not quite enough,

The temptation is there. That spike is thick and hard, and a total waste to not have plunged into his valve, but Starscream is a goal-orientated mech. He wants begging, so he'll get begging; otherwise neither of them deserve this. He grinds forward, brushing his own anterior node against the rigid protometal  and sighs as his valve spills lubricant keenly.

"You know what i want," he whispers hoarsely. "Give in, master, and we'll both get what we want."

For one more moment, Megatron hesitates and shutters his optics - Starscream thinks he'll have to try a new tack, because neither of them are leaving until he's successful - and then activates his vocaliser.

" _Please_ ," he repeats, a mainstay of what he's been repeating for these past two joors. It's spark-crushingly honest now; hungry, desperate. Pleading. "Your body, Starscream, I need..." His voice crackles with static. "Frag me, please, you miserable glitch!"

So it's not the complete and total capitulation that makes Starscream's valve wet, but it's a step in the right direction. Anyway his own array aches profoundly at the lack of physical stimulus, so Starscream shrugs, shuffles up a little and then sinks down onto that glorious spike like it was a throne. Shudders of pleasure burn through his sensors, and a few trip off into a tiny overload, only heightened by the spark-felt groan that falls from Megatron's mouth.

"Good start." Starscream rubs his palm up against Megatron's sculpted cheek, like he was stroking a much loved pet, and kisses his slightly slack lips once. "Let's work on your manners next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason this doesn't backfire the instant the stasis cuffs come off is because Megatron is officially Fragged Out. 
> 
> A recharge cycle later, however, Starscream has many regrets.


	12. Kissing Aft (Cunnilingus, Rimming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron gives Starscream his reward for a job well done; Starscream continues to go above and beyond.

Inevitably, Starscream is successful in his mission.

This is so typically Starscream, to pull some mad success out of the jaws of failure even if he is incapable of winning when the odds are heavily in his favour.

Megatron can only roll his optics and sigh. He then drags the seeker off and locks them both in his own berthroom.

To his credit, Starscream does look keen when he's thrown down onto the berth, and barely even pauses when Megatron crawls up over his body until he can kneel over the seeker's shoulders. Clawed digits settle on his thighs and Starscream bares his dentae in a wicked smile.

"A feast just for me. I'm spoilt, master," he croons, scraping the sharp tip of a talon over the rapidly heating pelvic plate. He's clearly expecting for it to be withdrawn and a spike pressurised to shove down his throat, but Megatron clamps down on the instinct to do so and instead just bares his valve. It's not like he dislikes valve-play but his preferences always lean towards spiking; to bare his valve seems foreign and, somehow, exciting.

"I'm taking advantage of this sudden competence," he growls, and grabs Starscream's helm to tilt his neck back. "Don't let me down."

Whatever Starscream's response is is muffled by the press of his mouth to Megatron's valve. His lips stall against the mesh briefly and his optics cycle wide as if unsure, but Starscream always bounces back quickly.

Soon Megatron is growling at the swipe of a practised glossa against his protoform. He has not played with Starscream like this before, and whether the mech is taking lessons from what he had done to him previously or experience from other valves, he is a quick study. He slickens the mesh lips with his glossa, and maps out external nodes with the sharp tip; finally when he sinks his glossa in it is to a wash of lubricant.

He's enjoying the play and push of that mobile mouth on his array, when there's a startling shift from what he was expecting. Unlike Starscream's array, which has triple plates and multiple fiddly complicated catches, his own frame is simplified. One plate covers his spike and the other his valve and port; so in the process of baring one to Starscream's evil little mouth, he has bared the other as well.

That devilish glossa swipes across his port again, hot and demanding and slick with lubricants. He growls, unsure, but Starscream is determined if nothing else  and licks again and again, until the protoform is warmed and keen. When the seeker seems to drift back to the dripping entrance of his valve, he shoves his hips forward and forces his glossa back to its new target. If that's how the glitch wants to play it then that's what he will get.

Starscream's laugh is dirty, skipping vibrations directly into the fuses of Megatron's array. Moving in a tight little circle, he rubs his glossa firmly against the tightly irised port until Megatron nearly shifts away from discomfort. Then he pushes the tip as deeply in as he can;. it makes little headway, but Starscream opens his mouth as widely as possible and presses hard. This earns him greater depth, and a slick wash of oral lubricant, which transmits snaps of current from the conductive protometal of Starscream's mouth.

It's filthy and degrading, like he's kissing into Megatron's aft, so naturally he grinds down harder into it. As if sensing his thoughts, Starscream purses his lips to suck on the rim in a mockery of a chaste kiss and then switches back to the raunchy open mouthed approach he had taken before. He frags his glossa in and out, loosening the tight iris of the port through sheer determination.

Charge starts to crackle; if it numbs Starscream's glossa he doesn't let it slow him down.

Two long, slender digits rub the neglected mesh of Megatron's valve, slip inside to massage the neglected walls and torment the shallow nodes. Megatron rocks into the touch, even reaches down to stroke over his own anterior node as Starscream's ruthless glossa eases deeper, sets off strange sensors never previously touched. It all feels strange and overwhelming, and horrendously _good_. His overload crests over him in a strange sweep, spreading from the newly abused protoform to ground into the nodes of his valve. Everything trips and seizes that bit harder, and Megatron grinds down hard to chase every twitch and pulse he can get heedless of the mech beneath him.

* * *

The next day Starscream has a swollen lip, a satisfied smile, and the shiniest medal Megatron can have forged on such short notice. It is unclear with which he is most smug.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron's reward system just got a lot more complicated.


	13. Too Much of A Good Thing (Creampie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron and Starscream make an agreement - but it's unclear who gets the best out of the deal.

For once Starscream is where Megatron had left him. Not that he had had much choice this time.

This had been the work of momentary weakness on both their parts, when Starscream had expressed his deep longing for the pampering he had been used to before he had joined the Decepticon cause - more specifically an oil bath - and, instead of batting the idea down like he should have, Megatron had seen the opportunity to achieve a long held fantasy of his own in exchange. He doubts that Starscream had expected his part of the bargain to extend quite this far.

As if there isn’t a seeker bound tightly face down on his berth, Megatron slaps the lock on the door panel and tramps across to his desk to deposit his servoful of datapads amid the others already piled there, and then un-subspaces a cube of energon. He sips leisurely until most of the cube is gone, and then turns back to the berth.

He suspects that if Starscream hadn’t been so utterly disarmed and thoroughly fragged out, he would probably be livid. As is, he’s collapsed firmly on his front, servos tied with thick cables behind his wings, his ankles bound in similar complicated knots. Before Megatron had left him at the start of the shift, he had, with the delicacy of a surgeon, pinched off the wiring linked to the thruster ignitions in his heels to prevent escape.

This is to say nothing of the utter mess Megatron had spent the last night-cycle making of his Second’s interface array. He had fragged Starscream in every available orifice, spilling his transfluid liberally as a result. Valve, aft poft and mouth are still sloppy with the thick slippery fluid; Megatron had carefully detached his pelvic plate and set in at the head of the berth, so that Starscream has no option but let his debauchery be fully visible. He trails gentle digits through the silver trails drying on clenching thighs and then heaves Starscream’s aft up, so he’s balanced on his knees and cockpit and his interface array is easily accessible.

“What a mess,” he rumbles, appreciatively. Under his digits, the valve mesh is cool and stiff, but starts to warm and soften after the first touch. “How do you feel?”

Starscream sighs, as if he’s just come back online after a long recharge, and splays his knees slightly to get a better position. “Sore. Neglected.” He shivers as Megatron’s digits make another pass through the mesh of his valve, dipping slightly deeper to urge a fresh slick of lubricant, oil and transfluid to drip to the berthcovers. “Absolutely fragging filthy. Let me up.”

“Soon,” croons Megatron, “Just once more.”

Starscream whines and wriggles, but, entirely trapped as he is, cannot make any headway. Megatron chuckles and frags him slowly with his servo, until Starscream is moaning and shaking instead.

“Where would you like it this time?” he rumbles, covering the trembling form on his berth with his own bigger frame. His spike rubs firmly between Starscream’s thighs, into the slick warm mess he had spent the last cycle making of his array. “Your valve, or your aft? How many have you had in each now?”

Starscream makes a short whining noise before his vocaliser resets in burst of gasping static. HIs whole frame trembles with charge and exhaustion, and Megatron should probably take mercy on him some time soon. But first things first…

“Come on now, Starscream,” he says, grinding his hips forward harder and leaning his chest down a little more. Starscream’s frame cants a little further with the pressure. “I asked you a question. Valve or aft? Maybe you want both? It’ll delay your bath...” He reaches out and strokes his thumb over the seeker’s visible cheek, catching a little at the corner of his mouth.

“Valve,” gasps Starscream suddenly, as if he had suddenly come online again. “In my valve.”

The temptation to purr something condescending is strong, but so is the urge to finally take advantage of Starscream’s compliance. He reaches back and adjusts the angle of his spike slightly, so the blunt tip rubs into the mesh, bumps the mass of the anterior node and then finally slides in deep.

Both of them groan in unrestrained pleasure. Starscream’s valve is a mess of lubricant and spilled transfluids,which reduce friction to nigh on zero, but conduct charge between the protometals of their arrays like lightning strikes. All of the calipers respond weakly, pushed open by his spike and then collapsing inward again as Megatron slowly withdraws. He could feel the slickness of his previous overload leaking back onto his plating when he thrust deep on the next push forward.

Over-sensitive and exhausted from the previous rounds of interface and his long wait, Starscream is immediately a shaking, groaning wreck; cooling fans threatening to stall out in their desperate attempt to blast out the heat in his core. With every thrust in, he groans like he’s being broken into pieces, but then sobs with loss when the spike withdraws from the inferno of his internals. Megatron braces himself on one forearm and wraps the other around the seeker’s waist to hold him in position as he frags him ruthlessly, hips pounding forward. From here he can purr his delight directly into Starscream’s audial, driving him to fresh bleats of sound that might be attempts at responding. His processor is evidently struggling to manage the manifold inputs; Megatron finds this rather complementary and slithers his servo down the smooth surface of his cockpit, brushes over the spike housing and rubs a firm circle over the so far ignored anterior node.

Starscream gasps and collapses into Megatron’s arm, his thighs shaking and his valve gripping tightly around the spike still pumping the soft mesh. It becomes obvious he can no hold his own weight on his knees, so Megatron thumbs over the node once more and lets him slump down flat.

“That’s it,” he purrs, freeing his arm and adjusting so he was straddling the seeker’s thighs, with a glorious view of his spike driving into that sloppy valve and the ruined little aft port just above. WIth a little adjustment, he can fit his digits down under a thigh to keep up the brutal friction over his node. With the other servo he pulls at the aft plating, rubbing a thumb digit over the soft, wet port. Starscream groans, garbled noises still spilling from his vocaliser in the time with the circles over his node and port.  “Nearly there. So good for me.” He presses a little harder and smirks as his thumb pops into the abused port, loosened and lubed by his previous spend.

Somewhere, Starscream’s overworked processor finds the connection to his vocaliser and he wails, high and wordless and broken as his valve cycles down  and charge sparks off his wiring. It grounds hot and sharp against Megatron’s frame, and he growls in pleasure, driving harder into the clenching valve. As long as he keep thrusting like this, rubbing his digits in tight little circle, Starscream continues to overload, moaning and thrashing and finally sobbing in desperate denial. Megatron doesn’t give him quarter until he hears what might be the glyphs for ‘please’ spilling out, and then sits back, letting his spike slip free.

Starscream is a strutless heap of clinking, cooling metal. His vents are wide open and blasting superheated air, cooling fans tripping on and off.  Beneath Megatron’s spike, his interface array is a swollen, slick, gaping mess, tempting him onwards with the scent of spent charge and rich mineral salts.

He takes himself in servo and strokes in sharp, tight movements, letting his hips jerk forward into the touch like he was fragging his own servo. On one hard forward thrust, the tip of his spike brushes into the wet mesh of the abused valve, and partially spent charge jumps into his protometal. His overload hits hard, pumping fresh transfluid over his digits and over the swollen mesh, covering the dark metal-mesh with liquid silver. He drives in deep once, groaning in low delight at the surge of his transfluid around his spike and then draws back entirely.

“Pretty mech,” he sighs, squeezing a servoful of aft plating and reaching out for his neglected energon cube. Starscream is dead weight when he rolls him over and sits him up, pressing the corner of the cube to his lip plates and encourage him to drink a few mouthfuls. The fresh fuel brings a little light back to the seeker's optics as Megatron undoes the bonds and rearranges the berth cushions into a more comfortable position, but he’s still too shattered to move.

Megatron fetches another full cube and a datapad and settles onto the berth, pulling Starscream’s lolling frame in closer.

“How do you feel?” he asks again, offering another sip of energon and then taking a mouthful himself.

“Sore, tired,” echoes Starscream, “Absolutely disgusting, you brute.” He tucks himself into closer to Megatron’s side regardless and raises a shaking servo for the energon cube. Megatron offers it again, tipping it against pouting lips. “You owe me an oil bath.”

“Of course, of course,” says Megatron, working hard to not be condescending for once. Starscream does deserve a little kindness for once. “Maybe in a little while. You have earned it now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, it's probably Starscream that's the winner in this agreement, at least once his oil bath is drawn and he has Megatron acting as his own personal cabana boy.


	14. Metal In Your Mouth (Cunnilingus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron's always had a gifted glossa.

Different mechs taste of different metals. Megatron - previously accomplished gladiator and champion of the Pits, current warlord feared and respected galaxy wide - has sampled his fair share of them. 

It has been many millennia and hundreds of other mechs. He has tasted steel and lithium and copper and manganese. He's had his face buried between many sets of thighs, had them bracketed around his head on a berth or tossed carelessly across his shoulders. He has had very few complaints.

There are bots out there that say valve-servicing is submissive, weak; that a true mech takes their pleasure from the spike and that the recipient just has to grin and take what they can in return. Megatron pities these imbeciles - they'll never know the heady rush of breaking someone to pieces with only their glossa and maybe a pointed nip of dentae. No one will ever whimper for more from them and  _ mean _ it. There is true power to be had in it, and Megatron  _ revels _ in it. 

Starscream, for example, is untrustworthy, traitorous and as self centred as a gyroscope. But all Megatron has to do is let his glossae dart out to trace his own lip plates, or flash a corner of sharp incisor, and the glitch goes quiet and thoughtful, wings fluttering. He becomes more  _ obedient _ , even more importantly. 

Shockwave once asks how Megatron does it, keen to learn, and it takes him a good few kliks to stop laughing enough to claim it a secret.

Starscream is after all his worst and best kept secret. It would be impossible for no one to know they are fragging on a regular basis, considering that Starscream's vocaliser has few settings lower than a screech. But no one seems to have grasped the sheer amount of time he spends with his glossae afixed to Starscream's array, savouring the taste. 

Starscream tastes of cobalt, bitter and sharp, and the sweet oiliness of molybdenum. His lubricant runs rich with niobium, thick and warm on Megatron's glossa, and every time he eats him out his fuel tanks get a healthy lining of the stuff. 

The Seeker is hot against him, all smooth plating and fluttering wings. His interface panel is scalding, lubricant steaming where it oozed from the seams. Megatron is more then tempted to risk his glossa to taste what he's been dreaming about since he woke from recharge. Every kiss he presses to that delectable frame zips charge over his facial plates and straight through his processor, plating metallic with nickel and palladium.

He's only reached Starscream's cockpit by the time the first little shivering overload rolls over him, bypassing his array entirely. 

"Primus," he says, panting open mouthed on the seeker's hip and making him squirm as condensation sizzled on his wires.  "You're so fragging hot."

"Mmm," says Starscream, very much not denying it. His pelvic plate snaps open at the next kiss on his thigh and he moans at the cool air on his array, and then again at the heat blasting from Megatron's vents. 

The sight is always better than even the high def pictures in his memory banks - plump, dark mesh folds, biolights twinkling invitingly, the anterior node swollen and begging for his touch. Completely at his raging libido's mercy he bends his helm and licks a broad stripe up the dripping lubricant and shivers at the blast of charge across his glossa. Starscream shrieks to the high heavens and clutches at his pauldrons as a heavy overload crashes into him. 

"Even taste good.." says Megatron, glossa already numb and heavy from the dissipated charge across his mouth plates. He doesn't let that stop him though and dives back in like a starving mech to an energon tap. He maps every inch he can reach with his mouth, sucking on swollen tantalum mesh and toying with sensor nodes until Starscream is babbling and clutching at the back of his pauldrons frantically. His thighs clench tight against his helm until sparks fly, but if he's going to die of processor damage, Megatron would like it to be like this with this mech's legs crushing his helm, and the taste of niobium in his mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron eats pussy like a champ, but counters it by being a power-hungry megalomaniac because the universe desires equilibrium above all else.


	15. Helping Hand (Mutual Masturbation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decepticons do not understand working together, so Megatron and Starscream try a little team-building exercise.

"The whole point," Starscream snarls for the umpteenth time that joor, "Is that we keep our servos to ourselves."

Megatron retracts his servo obediently, nursing the talon scrapes over the knuckles with only a mildly sulky expression. Starscream leans forward from his precarious position across Megatron's thighs and kisses him as a balm. He means it to be chaste and quick, but Megatron has other ideas and deepens the embrace, drawing the seeker in closely. Their spikes brush and rub together, leaving slick trails of lubricant across their bellies, and Starscream pushes into the touch for a moment before sense returns.

"Are you incapable of following instructions?" he hisses, but cannot bring himself to move away. Trapped against the thick weight of Megatron's own, his spike pulses pleasantly. Below, his valve is siphoning the spare charge it can to plump up its own mesh, and his whole frame delights in it.

Megatron bares his teeth and leans back in to nip at Starscream's throat cables, until he jolts and gasps at every touch, and sneaks his scraped servo back to grasp Starscream's spike. He rarely uses it, so the touch of a rough servo on the delicate platelets of his equipment is delicious, if not startling.

"You tempt me far too much," growls Megatron, as if his inability to keep his servos on his own equipment is Starscream's fault.

All right, so even if it is all his fault is it such a bad thing? He would preen if his processor wasn't being dismantled by long slow strokes of his spike.

In order to not be out done, Starscream wraps his digits around the thick spike rubbing his abdominal vents  and thumbs the tip in a way that never fails to make his master shudder. As ever, Megatron's huge frame judders, his engine stalling out for a second, and then his servo squeezes tighter until Starscream murmurs in discomfort. Instantly the pressure eases off, and, as if in apology, big digits dip lower to rub at the tender nodes around the spike housing, and then further still to brush his awakening anterior node. This time the noise he makes is pleased.

"Even your valve is wet," growls Megatron, his earthquake of a voice leaning towards smug accomplishment. "Do I have such an effect on you, pretty seeker?"

Starscream wriggles when digits now slick with his own lubricant wrap around his spike. "What can I say, disobedience gets my engines running..."

"This explains so much." Megatron heaves him up slightly so he can fit his other servo around the curve of his aft, to rub thoughtlessly against his valve mesh. His array is thoroughly confused by the myriad of touches, charge trying to build in two systems at once, and it takes some of the edge off.

This gives him the opportunity to reclaim some of his dignity, by running through every devious trick he has learnt through extended experience in his master's berth. Megatron is a terrible, cruel warlord, the most feared being the the galaxy, and Starscream knows exactly how to twist his wrist at the top of every stroke to have the mech writhing beneath him in kliks.

He does so now, and cackles as Megatron groans and abruptly loses control of his own servos' rhythm, the digits circling an anterior node dropping away to squeeze at the inside of his thigh. Starscream presses home his advantage and focuses on his own movements until the spike in his servo throbs and spills over his fist. It's addictive, to watch this big mech come undone under his touch, and his own spike twitches near overload in the slack servo surrounding him.

The urge is just too much to ignore, so he closes his spare servo around the big fist and uses it to touch himself. Megatron's palms are work worn and rough, his frame degrees hotter for his recent overload. Starscream can only squeeze everything so tightly with his long but smaller digits and for a few moments it's all just a tantalising tease of what could be, until the mech musters enough processing power to close his fist just a fraction more. This is the way Starscream reaches overload, vents snapping open to blast out the boiling air from his chassis.

As his processor ticks back to normal function, the seat beneath him of Megatron's lap shifts. The digits pressing the seam of his inner thigh loosen slightly.

"So much for keeping your servos to yourself," rumbles Megatron. "You can't even follow your own instructions."

"I'm not taking the blame for your wandering servos." Starscream's valve still has a searing residual charge jumping from sensor to sensor. Digits trace the seam of his inner thigh.  "But since your digits are there already..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This counts as a success in Decepticon terms. 
> 
> (Also, as we've reached the halfway point, I'm extending an invitation for any prompts/kinks/filthy business you would like to see.)


	16. Capitulation (Consensual Degradation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron shows Starscream exactly where his place is, in no uncertain terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For megatronsthiccthighs, who wanted some consensual degredation +/- facials. 
> 
> Well. I hope this suits!

On purpose, Starscream ignores the summons for as long as he can. He knows he's tempting fate, but it wouldn't do either of them any justice to come running when he was called. He didn't want Megatron getting false ideas about his priorities.

Starscream has very exact ideas about what his priorities are this cycle.

So he acknowledges the order and then kicks his thruster heels up for a joor or two. He reads through a new datapad, refuels, engages in a brief but entertaining argument with Thundercracker and finishes off by buffing himself to a glimmering sheen.

Finally there is little more he can do to delay following his orders, so he cants his wings to a saucy angle and saunters to the throne room.

* * *

The throne room is a silent, empty expanse at this time of the off-shift, except for the hulking megalith of the throne at the far end. Starscream struts the length of the hall and falls into an obsequious, formal bow at the base of the plinth.

Silence stretches for a very long time. Starscream's tactical computer starts to tick online, urging him to spring up and make space, but he quashes the commands and stays in his low crouch.

Megatron shifts, a great heap of metal slowly reaminating. His optics smoulder like coals in the dim light. The tiling under Starscream vibrates as the mech stands, knee joints creaking and hydraulics groaning as his pedes take his weight.

"I called for you three joors ago," he says, taking slow steps down the shallow stairs from his throne.

"Apologies, my lord." Starscream rolls his optics where he was sure it wouldn't be seen, and straightens to stand close to attention. "There were tasks which needed my attention."

Megatron strolls in a wide circle behind him and snorts. "Like shining yourself to a perfect polish? I could see my reflection in your aft should I wish to."

Starscream preens. "It wouldn't do to come in front of my lord and master _scruffy_."

"I appreciate your attention to presentation," says Megatron, stepping closely to cup his chin and tilt his helm back a little further. Anger is the wrong word for what has afflicted him; instead there is something deeper and hungrier, like he wants Starscream to break for him.

Starscream licks his lips and thinks that he has waited exactly the right amount of time after all.

"Do you think you can ignore me?" Megatron's vocaliser rumbles like an earthquake. Starscream's wings tremble at the frequency, a mistake to draw attention to their span, for that is where Megatron's servos go next. Starscream tries to dodge, but strange desperation clouds his processor and makes his tactical module click off: he's snatched up, wings pulled to their maximum span by the cruel grip.

"Vain," spits Megatron, clenching strong digits and bending individual dents into the delicate metal. The pain is exquisite in all senses of the word and Starscream would buckle to his knees if it didn't drag harder on his wounds. "Lazy. Arrogant!" This time he twists a wing until the gears whine at the edges of tolerance. "You persist in testing my patience, Starscream."

"A mistake, master. It won’t- it’s won’t happen again." Starscream's processor feels foggy, but not just with pain. Alone in this room, with Megatron's fists tearing gasps from his vents, he can admit that he likes this, that he wants to be held and pinned and controlled and _used_. His joints feel wobbly and every sensor in his system lights up acutely. Even his array pings online. With every grip and dent of his wings, fresh energon pools in his interface system, plumping and warming his mesh and flushing fresh lubricant into his valve.

"Drooling already," sneers his master, slapping the palm of his servo against Starscream's panel. He whimpers and tries to grind down into the touch, to get some form of physical pleasure and not just this burning humiliation that makes him weak in his knee joints. But Megatron senses this, the slagger, and withdraws his servo, onto for it to be slapped down again. "You'll get what's given to you, _whore_ , and you'll learn to like it."

Starscream has no choice but to go as he's dragged, one big fist on the dented sheets of his wings, the other clasped loosely around his throat. He's brought to the bottom of the plinth and then dropped to the floor like a sack of spare parts. Megatron stomps up the steps and takes his seat, slouched and thighs akimbo like the conquering warlord he is. By all rights, Starscream should right himself and make his escape now, but the image draws him in.

"Crawl." Megatron's voice booms in the throne room; Starscream has no hope of disobeying even as his tanks roil in embarrassment. At least the room is empty, but there are cameras in the lofty eaves - perhaps Soundwave is watching from his creepy eerie, like the pervert Starscream has always suspected him of being. Probably getting off on watching Starscream humbled in front of their lord.

At least he would be in good company, Starscream thinks rather wildly as he heaves himself up the last step and pauses. Could he risk hauling himself to his feet or should he just prostrate himself now and get it over with? His internal monologue is answered when a huge pede, nearly the breadth of his torso, rises and shunts indelicately against the side of his helm.

"Shouldn't you be begging for my mercy?"

Megatron's pedes are covered with a faint layer of dust from stomping through the Nemesis' decks. Starscream pauses, fighting his own personality for a second before he obeys and bows his head. He kisses the pede, shuddering at the faint taste of grease, and trails his mouth upwards. By the time he reaches the knee joint his glossa tastes faintly of titanium and spacedust, and he's shoved away to repeat the same action on the opposite pede and shin. His processor roils with humiliation, coiling through those strange arousal driven pathways that threaten to takeover, and it’s this that makes him calm when he's grabbed by a wing and hauled up into a broad lap.

His thighs must stretch wide to wedge his knees into the space by the arms, and it strains the cables awkwardly in his groin joints. He reaches down to soothe them, rub his digits through the aching space to untangle taut wires; abruptly his servos are snatched up and a thick plastic tie drawn tight across his wrists.

"Ah master," he starts, "As much as I love being at your service, I can surely do a better job with my servos free."

Megatron snorts again, derisively, and pulls the tie tighter. "I think you overestimate your worth in your 'job'," he sneers. "Perhaps a trustworthy mech I could leave to give me pleasure , but you, dear Starscream, are a worthless piece of scrap. So I will being _taking_ from you."

"I'm not your plaything!" he complains, trying to wriggle away, but both actions are weak and half-sparked. It stills earns him a big servo squeezing his neck, and he goes limp again obediently.

"Are you not? Because you came flaunting yourself like you wanted something, you licked my pedes like you enjoyed it and you're sat in my lap like a whore. Perhaps you missed your calling as shareware." Megatron gives him a little shake. "I can smell your valve dripping from here. Do whores normally run so hot for their clients?"

"No, master," wheezes Starscream as his throat is released. His valve cover slips open a little, and rivulets of lubricant spill with audible plinks onto scalding armour.

"Just me then?"

"Yes master." His vocaliser cracks. "Please, master."

""So desperate." Megatron sounds thoroughly amused, striping his digits through the trails of lubricant oozing from Starscream's valve and touching his digit-tips together, as if more interested in the texture than the signs of the seeker's desperation. Starscream whines, wants those digits back at the apex of his thighs where he might be about to manipulate them into his valve proper, and earns himself a mouthful of digits and the taste of his own valve.

At least he tastes good, he thinks ruefully, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, driving his glossa into the gaps of joints and knuckles. All this earns him is the digits pressing into the back of his intake, testing the valves there. Megatron hooks his digits into the protoflesh of Starscream’s cheek to stretch his mouth grotesquely and then returns to the previous servo-hold around his throat cables. The other servo hooks into the slick, sensitive mesh of his valve, driving digit tips harder in the line of nodes at the front of the protometal cruelly. Starscream writhes and wriggles, trying to roll his hips to shift the pressure and only succeeding in bumping  wet valve prints onto Megatron's pelvic plating.

His befuddled processor pings him several delighted and fearful warnings as the plating shifts away, digits slip from his valve and the next touch on his anterior node are the firm platelets of a fat, thick spike.

"I know what you want," says Megatron, tightening his grasp again and pulling Starscream up until he's stretched to the full height he can reach on his knees. WIngs spread , his servos still tied over his cockpit, he feels awfully unbalanced; he might have complained if not for that huge servo crushing his vocaliser. It might not be so bad if he could snap back, but voiceless like this he is without what is justifiably his best weapon. Without it, he's useless but for one thing, the thing that Megatron is crooning to him right at that moment.

Good only for Megatron's spike, his master is purring, but why should he get it? Has he earned it? Really? Megatron doesn't think so, doesn't think he's even close, but really how unkind could he be to such a pathetic little whore. So he'll be kind, won't he, and let Starscream take what he wants.

Starscream's vocaliser manages to vibrate enough to splutter out another "Please!". Megatron seems to like it, and lowers him ruthlessly onto his hard spike, until he's as seated as he can be. His valve calipers ripples and flex around the intruder, driving the firm protometal into the interior sensors ruthlessly and he's too utterly befuddled to stop it. His frame is keen for all it can get.

His shuddering reaction is evidently pleasing. Megatron tightens his grasp on his throat and uses it as leverage to haul him up, until only the broad tip is breaching his mesh, and then drag him down. There is no respite, no give, and his processor ticks a little further into capitulation. He's almost there, so close...

Perhaps Megatron senses his hesitation and leans in keenly to urge him that little further over the line. His vocaliser spills words like poison and Starscream croons static for every glyph.

"Such a sweet valve. This is what you're best for, Starscream, a tight wet place to shove my spike. As much as i want to ruin this, how could i deprive myself of the pleasure of using you again and again? It would be a waste of the best valve I've had in many a vorn." He drags Starscream's frame up and down again, slow and slick. "Maybe I should share you out like the whore you clearly are.  I should think Soundwave would be hungry to have his revenge on your nasty mouth; Shockwave might complain he is emotionless, but a tight aft is a tight aft regardless. Or maybe I'll have you and your trinemates frag each other for my amusement. All three of you as beautiful as any royal consort."

He sighs, momentarily hazy optic'd at the image he had created for himself. Starscream wriggles in complaint, and gets another slow heave up and down for his troubles. "Perhaps I should make better use of you. Think of the extent a mech would go to to feel you clench around them - yes like _that_. Should I hand you out as a reward? Because, Starscream -" He squeezes his grasp on neck cables as tight as possible without causing rupture. "- you are mine to do with as I please. Complain and rebel all you want, but you know where your place is, and it is right _here_."

Starscream feels his processor slow to a crawl, arousal and submission finally winning out over his personality modules. He _is_ a toy, a plaything, and whatever his master wants then he has no choice in the matter. It's freeing, somehow, to relax into the crushing grip around his throat and settle his wings low against his back and just accept the inevitable of whatever will happen.

Megatron seems to feel it, pulling him in closer and kissing him cruelly, fangs scraping his lip plates, biting at his glossa. He inspects the light from Starscream's optics closely, as if he can read what is happening behind them and smirks at whatever it is he sees.

"You are at your best like this," he growls. "You really do only achieve your best form under my control, Starscream. I do wish you would see this easier."

He releases Starscream's throat and slouches back into his throne.  "Frag yourself on my spike, whore."

Obeying is hard; Starscream's servos remain bound and difficult to use as leverage even against Megatron's firm abdominal armour. Instead he must use the strength in his thighs and hips to raise himself a little and then drop back down with a clang. He's getting paint transfers and scuffs all over his aft, but it matters nothing when that delicious spike stretches his valve out to maximum capacity and rakes every node in his array. Occasionally a big servo moves to smack his thigh to encourage the pace, or tug a wing to curve his frame back into a delicate arc, but otherwise his master lets him do the work.

What Megatron does is keep speaking - so too is his voice one of his primary weapons, particularly effective against Starscream's processor while in this state. He recaps the filth he had murmured earlier about Starscream's place as shareware, and then launches into an elaborate fantasy as to what else he might be useful for.

The options are presented and all of them sound terrible and fantastic at the same time. Even as he's bouncing on Megatron's lap, the indignity of being lashed to a mess table as a stress relief for the rest of the army is described to the room, how they would clip the wires to his vocaliser so at the best he could create moans and whines through his engine but otherwise not complain as he was ridden by any Decepticon that fancied a crack at him. How Megatron would amble past and enjoy the sight of his wrecked and ruined frame, his valve and aft sloppy with overloads, and never deign to touch him again.

Or, even better, bound and immobilised in a remote space, with Soundwave to send a welcoming invitation to any passing mechs, be they 'Cons, Neutrals or, indeed, even Autobots. Megatron proposes that they might pretend they were too high and mighty to abuse a prisoner, but the lure of Starscream's beautiful wings and his tight, prim little array in combination with the war-borne urge to conquer a feared enemy would be too much for some. Would Starscream like that, he growls in his sinful voice, to be pinned by their enemy? No 'Con would respect him after that, only the most desperate would think to mount him afterwards, sullied as he would be. He would be forced to crawl back to the 'Bots and beg for their touch to sate this filthy, pathetic aspect of him. Certainly his master would not have him after that either.

"Or," says Megatron, shunting his hips up and spearing Starscream hard on a downstroke. "You can stay here, and grovel for me to touch you like the whore you are."

"Master!" he sobs, working his hips a little harder. "Please master!"

"My lovely little whore," rumbles Megatron. "Is that your choice made already?"

"Yes!" He chokes on sparks as the spike coring him open hammers up into him. "Anything that you want, master, I'll do it!"

"I want you to overload then," says Megatron, and Starscream's frame trips straight into discharging his pent up charge even before his processor registers the words. The spike in his valve does not slow for a nanoklik,  pounding every last joule out of his sensors until he is quivering and lax, and then still pumping into him. Starscream whines at the incipient delight that will be his master's transfluid spilling into his depths, soothing his battered nodes, and then, abruptly, he's grabbed by the wings and turfed onto the floor.

His landing is hard, jarring one of his knee joints and collapsing onto the battered expanse of a wing. His valve clenches down on nothing suddenly, and spatters his thighs with lubricant as it grasps for anything to fill it.

"Whore." Through his haze, Starscream's helm turns automatically to his master. Megatron is a monolith in silver and scarred black, huge in all aspects, his presence as attractive as a neutron star. Starscream props himself on weak elbows  and manages to heave himself onto his knees, which splay automatically under his weight. "Come here, my dear Starscream. Come get your reward."

He goes, crouching between his master's thick thighs, and turns his face upwards obligingly. The fat length of his master's spike drops against his face plates, still wet with his own lubricant and heavy with the weight of the transfluid that should be Starscream's by right. He wants to open his mouth, to let that thick head pierce the valves at the back of his throat, to taste every node and platelet as it's pushed into his intake tubing, but he's given no option. His master just grinds the weight of it against his lips, his cheek, pulling him in harder by the back of the helm until the force is almost bruising. Megatron cups his chin, drives a thumb into the welcoming pillow of his glossa and overloads with surprisingly quiet gasp.

Thick silvery fluid pumps from the tip, decorating Starscream's facial plates from his optics to his jaw. Spatters hit the glass of his optics and the shutters close automatically to protect the lenses. It collects in the grooves under his optics, trails down the plane of his cheek, tempts him over his lips.  He's a mess, kneeling at his master's pedes and grateful for every smear on his previous perfect plating.

His processor firmly informs his consciousness that it is entirely superfluous to the running of his frame, and Starscream is all too glad to let it take over entirely.

* * *

A big servo pets his helm softly. This is what triggers an overactive tactical module to jump to life. Starscream raises his helm, blinks his optics open and regrets it only slightly. Someone - he can guess who - has wiped his face plates down, although he remains servo-bound and kneeling.

Megatron is watching him with an expression that can only be described as fond. He plucks a cube of energon from a shadowy space by the throne and offers it.

"I refuelled before I came," says Starscream, but takes a sip.

"Of course you did." Megatron presses him to take another mouthful. "Let me take care of this."

"You _took_ about everything else," sighs Starscream as he's hauled back up into a comfortable lap, sideways this time with his pedes slung over a great throne arm. The plastic tie around his wrists is snapped by one big black servo in  a show of strength that pleases his still active submission protocols. He slumps there, feeling a little like a puppet with his strings cut, and for one brief moment lets himself enjoy it.

He likes knowing where his place is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally just porn.


	17. Don't Ask, Don't Get (Anal Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream knows that if he wants something, he has to _take_ it.

"I beg your pardon?!"

Starscream fights against the urge to roll his optics and sigh. When they had started fragging, no one had warned him that Megatron could be such a prude. The mech is a feared warlord, an ex-champion gladiator and a former miner, and still somehow the idea of a little aft play makes him bluster like a stunned virgin.

All he had done was crawl up over the mech's big frame and coo into his audials a little suggestion about what he wanted Megatron to do to him. It had only been moderately filthy, but Megatron had still lurched back as if shocked.

"Never mind that," he purrs, eager not to miss out on a good frag even if it wasn't quite what he was craving. "I misspoke. Open your array and let me apologise."

Before he can slither down and make good, Megatron catches him across the scruff of his neck.

"What did you say?" growls Megatron, the lenses in his optics wide and the light bright. "Say it again."

His tone is dark and smouldering, but Starscream can not sense any malice. He swallows, and does as he's told. "I said that tonight you should frag me up the aft."

"Repeat it exactly," snarls Megatron, even deeper. His engine rumbles beneath Starscream's frame, vibrations shuddering delicate sensors in his array together.

"Fine," he purrs, "In that case - I want you to put your big thick spike into my tight little aft-port."

Megatron's engines roar, and the servo squeezing the back of Starscream's neck tightens. "Such filth, Starscream. You should be ashamed."

He writhes under the attention, flaring his wings wide and enjoying the way Megatron's optics flicker over them hungrily. "I don't see you refusing."

Megatron bares his fangs, but says nothing else. His servos graze over turbines, groping and squeezing, digits turning the fans against resistance until Starscream yelps and wriggles away. The next touch moves onto his vents, digits tracing the slats until they opened to start blowing the heat from his warming frame. This draws those powerful servos to his wings instead, and the first moan escapes Starscream's vocaliser as his ailerons are toyed with, flexing them back and forth. Charge sheds into the fuses around his array, and soon he's crying out freely, bumping his aft down into Megatron's pelvic plating. This earns him a growl and a shudder in return and there's a pleasing clack of his pelvic plate opening. The length and breadth spears up through the air, pressurising rapidly until it was thick and proud; if he grinds back, it bumps against his aft and feels impossibly big pressed against him.

"Yes, " he hisses, reaching back to press it tighter to his plating and toy with the ridges. Megatron grunts and lets him play for a moment. "You would feel so good in my port."

"Filth," growls the warlord again, but his grasp moves from when he had been tugging on wing tips and he gropes Starscream's aft eagerly. Digits brush into seams, and press against the catches holding the plate in place accidentally. He can't help but transform the cover away in response, and Megatron's servos freeze.

Momentarily fearful he has jacked this up and is now not only not going to get his desired interface but possibly going to get turfed out of berth instead, Starscream hurries to snap the plating back. Big digits wedge it in place however, digging into sensitive protoform and holding him still.

"Master..." he calls, sweetly, desperately. "Master, please. Let me give you my valve at least..."

Megatron's face twists into a smirk. "But what about your poor tight little aft? Should you share such despicable fantasies with me if you do not wish to have them fulfilled?"

 _Oh_. So it might yet go in Starscream's favour. He grinds back again, to get the gratification of watching Megatron's optics shutter with pleasure, and then says, "I can only be pleased with what you deign to give me, my lord."

"Clever mech." Digits release Starscream's aft and he's tumbled to the side, undignified. When he untangles himself, Megatron is still lounging in place, a servo wrapped loosely about his spike. "Perhaps I am feeling magnamious. Prepare whichever hole you prefer, Starscream, but do it quickly."

Starscream leaps to obey, possibly the one time he has ever done so. He has a small bottle of oil in his subspace, which he fishes out and pours over a servo, as he transforms the rest of the pelvic array away. His valve throbs with relief at being released, and it's tempting to just sink his digits in their and soothe his aching nodes, but when he reaches down, Megatron grabs his wrist.

"Whichever you pick, I want the other sealed away." He slaps a big servo over the swollen metalmesh and Starscream spits sparks. "You can't have your oil-cake and eat it too, Starscream."

"Get your slagging servo out of the way then," he grunts, and as soon as the pressure is off his valve he regretfully slides the front plates closed once more.

"So keen for your own degradation," laughs Megatron, but he leans in keely as Starscream reaches back and presses his first digits into his aft port. He plays with his spike absently as he watches the seeker ease the digit into the knuckle and then pull back again. Starscream has done this before many time, and he knows well what his frame can take - it's easy to build to three digits pumping in and out of his aft hole as he considers how much a of stretch he wants.

Finally, his own keenness wins out. He slicks another measure of oil  over the iris and makes to straddle Megatron's waist again, but is pushed back into the berthsheets and covered by his bigger frame. His knees are drawn back to clunk against his shoulder vents, nearly bent in half, and all he can do is clutch at Megatron's chest and trim belly as the bigger mech rubs his spike through the slick mess of his rear protoform. Even well stretched, that spike feels huge bumping over his port and Starscream licks his lip plates with a sudden nervous tremble in his tanks.

He reaches down and lines up the broad head, and grunts as the first inch sinks in until it reaches resistance. Above him, Megatron looks briefly stunned at his spike being so tightly held and his cooling fans hum to their highest setting.

"Slowly," he hisses, "Until I tell you otherwise."

Megatron murmurs something inaudible, but otherwise obeys. His optics widen and his lips plates drop open in a last ditch attempt to clear heat from his frame by panting as he drives in, each widening inch popping through platelet by platelet. Starscream has no option but to lie there and let himself be skewered, moaning like a cheap pleasure drone. He would like to flick open his valve plate and rub the sensitive mesh there, but Megatron's previous command probably still stood and there was something extra filthy about having no option but overload like this. He rather likes it, finds it drives his burgeoning charge that little bit higher.

His valve, on the other servo, is definitely feeling neglected; he can feel it clench and cycle hungrily as his aft is driven open, and all there is is the pressure of that huge, thick spike crushing nodes remotely. The few scattered sensors in his aft channel are naïve and therefore extra sensitive to the zaps of charge and the burning friction against them as Megatron finally forces the last thickest part of his spike inside. Pelvic plating bumps into Starscream's upturned aft when Megatron leans down further, as if he might be able to push in deeper by sheer force of will.

"You're..." Megatron bares his dentae again, optics winking on and off in a stuttered blink. "So tight…"

"Mmmf." Starscream's processor is too full of over-capacity warnings and stabs of pleasure from his array. His valve cycles down again, driving thick squelches of lubricant out, and his aft port is pleasantly over-stuffed with thick spike. His vocaliser sounds choked when he finally finds control of his glossa. "Frag me, you slagger," he gasps. "Prove that glorious spike isn't wasted on your stupid processor."

Antagonising someone with their spike in your aft was probably a poor idea, but it rather works in Starscream's favour this time. Megatron leans his weight down fully, bending Starscream into a tight little knot, and draws his hips back until only the broad, brutal head is inside him. The iris of his port entrance flutters and works frantically over the intrusion, but can do nothing to resist the sudden thrust back deep inside. Starscream throws his helm back and lives up to his name.

"Good enough for your esteemed tastes?" growls Megatron, and doesn't pause for a second for his answer. Starscream can barely comprehend anything past the heavy thrusts into his aft, sensors ablaze and internal temperature clicking up by degrees as his own thighs block his flank vents. He can see his own pedes bouncing against Megatron's shoulders in time to their armour clattering. He's owned entirely by this huge mech, body and mind, as he's ridden fiercely into the berth top until his vocaliser gives up and his optics flicker on and off. Fuses click warningly in his pelvis and spine, threatening a truly overpowering overload already.

Megatron pauses for a moment, easing back an inch and settling deep so he can reach back and take a hold of the seeker's aft. Crouched above him, he pulls Starscream up and onto his spike, turning the pace into frantic short jabs that some how brutalise his sensors all the better. A surge protector blows somewhere mid spine and knocks out most of his sensor net below the waist, leaving only his array still active. It was all the more like being a cheap berth toy, designed for the purpose of lying there and letting a big, strong mech use him. And Megatron was the biggest, strongest mech around, and by Primus, was he _using_ him.

Just that thought is enough. Starscream tries to pant out a warning of his impending climax and then can only choke on sparks as overload hits like a lighting strike. His valve cycles, empty, but his aft clenches and squeezes, milking every inch of spike buried inside it until Megatron roars and the surge of transfluid spills so deep Starscream thinks he might taste it. He keeps pumping his hips, driving extra charge between their protoforms, until the last burns out against one of Starscream's sensor nodes.

Abruptly, just as Starscream thinks he might be able to speak again, the spike is wrenched from his aft port. He shudders at the sudden jerk of sensation and manages a curse based on Megatron's ancestry.

"I gave you what you wanted," the warlord growls, his vocaliser even more rough than normal. "And you speak with me like this. The epitome of a low class mech."

Starscream spits another curse and groans as he is allowed to uncurl. The sensors in his legs haven't fully onlined yet, so all he can feel is patches of wetness against his thighs but he imagines that the sheets are a mess. His array is still fully active and cooling pleasantly; the slow ooze of transfluid from his port drives shivers up his spine.

"Just wanted to warn you you're missing the best bit," he croaks. " Or are you too much of a prude to want to see what a mess you've made of me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find myself asking the age-old question - do robots have buttholes? 
> 
> The answer is of course - if it suits my kinks then yes.


	18. Full Tanks (Food Play)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nemesis has a full larder for once, so Starscream's not adverse to a little wastage.

For once, the Nemesis' energon stores are overflowing, topped up after a successful series of raids. They have even come into possession of a hefty stash of high grade, and Starscream knows the army and his armada are keen to tap into this.

Pity that Megatron disagreed. Any petition to have a ship wide party has been so far refused. Judging by the state of Megatron's temper it appears that a lot of mechs have asked.

As second in command, Starscream is next in line to be asked, and he is inclined to agree with the petitioners. He has seen the pallets of high grade brought on the ship - ranging from a weak magenta to the near indigo of the highest refination. He has also seen the the rest of the stores packed full, and heard the mutinuous grumbling from his seekers and assorted ground pounders. Not that he is one to try to support Megatron's rule, but if he is seen to turn the tables then he might be considered the hero. Mechs will owe him. It is ideal.

So he advises them that he will do all he can, waits until the middle of a shared off-shift, when he knows Megatron will be lurking in his quarters, and sends a subtle message. Within two kliks there is a heavy fist clattering on his door.

When he unlocks the door, Megatron stomps inside, slams his palm on the door lock and then stops dead. Starscream does rather appreciate that keen gaze on him at certain times, such as right now, when that cunning processor is considering every inch of his frame and every facet of his behaviour to decide what to do with him. He _really_ likes when it takes Megatron a nanoklik longer, such as now.

He dips a second claw in the cube and brings it out dripping deep purple, to run it over his lip plates and finally slide it into his mouth. The taste of high grade explodes over his glossa and makes his own processor swim for a second.

"It's from my own stash," he says, licking the fuel from his lips with an unnecessarily provocative glossa. "Just in case you're worried."

"Take another drink," says Megatron, voice like thunder.

Starscream presses the corner of the cube to his lip plates, and then tilts it up a little too far. He pretends to flinch as energon drips down his chin, spilling down onto his cock pit. It feels warm and slick as it trails down the glass and onto the heated plating of his abdomen.

"Ooops," he says, and scoops up a digitful to pop it into his mouth. "How clumsy of me."

Megatron paces forward, each step purposefully measured; his optics never leave Starscream's mouth, hungry. "Perhaps I better take that off you before you waste more." He takes the cube from barely resisting digits and sips a little himself, optics burning brighter red at the searing charge. It only highlights the gravity of his gaze.

"Have you refuelled already?" Starscream runs his servo through the spillage on his cockpit. When the warlord shakes his head he grins and offers forth a digit. "In that case, might I make a serving suggestion?"

* * *

The very next cycle, Megatron stands in front of his warriors and announces that since they've all been so very obedient and hardworking they are due a reward. As he announces that rations will be tripled for the next cycle, and the high grade will be free, the assembled mechs cheer his designation and stamp their pedes.

At his right side on the plinth - briefly permitted in no small part due to the sheer effort he had put into the last night - Starscream smiles a nasty little private smile and tries to ignore the dried stickiness on his cockpit. He had writhed for joors under Megatron's attentions, as energon had been poured across every last inch of his frame and a broad mouth had licked it back off. He can still remember the slick sensation of fuel seeping past his valve mesh and the determined glossa that had chased after it.

Distracted as he is by the memories of  their debauchery, he misses the near stampede to get to the mess hall. When he next looks up it is to Megatron looming over him and backing him into a wall. 

"They are not the only ones who are hungry," says Megatron, bowing his head to lap that surprisingly nimble glossa into Starscream's mouth. He tastes like high grade and a tang of Starscream's own polish. Big knuckles rap on his pelvic plates when they break apart and Megatron smirks. "Now open up, so I can enjoy my favourite meal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron, you are corny with a capital C.


	19. Play Nice (Toys, Double Penetration)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream's secrets are far too often Megatron's liabilities - it's just better to not let him keep any.

The false spike is sizable. Megatron hefts it and smirks. A lesser mech might feel insecure but Megatron knows how to drag a victory out of an apparent loss. It's evident that his own spike is too expertly used for Starscream to replace it anything equivalent. So it stands he would have to go bigger.   
  
It had been tucked in a secret compartment welded into a bulkhead, which Starscream clearly thought was more secretive than it actually was. Taking of advantage of Starscream's typical fastidious need for a solvent shower after interface, Megatron had pretended to settle for a nap after their last set of berth antics and had then tapped into his inner sneaky bastard.

He had known the mech had secrets and it was never in anyone’s best interests for Starscream to keep secrets.   
  
His surreptitious rifling had found some elaborate blueprints, a stash of expensive high grade and the compartment. This had contained a few jars of the rich polish the seeker liked, a bottle of oily lubricant and a mesh bag containing the false spike.   
  
Megatron takes the oil and the false spike, steals a drink of high grade - so heavily refined he can only take a sip before the blast of charge make his optics swim - and settles back onto the berth just in time for Starscream to emerge from the wash rack. He casts a jaundiced optic across the room and tells through some suspicious sense that someone has been snooping.   
  
"So what did you find?" He demands. He's probably not expecting Megatron to bring his servos up from behind his back and produce the oil covered length of the false spike, a lurid shiny black with a multitude of bumps and ridges to simulate the delicate plating and nodes of a true spike.   
  
"Is this what you spend your free time with?" He asks. If he pretends to be disgruntled then it’s more likely Starscream will fall into his trap, hastily conceived with his discovery.   
  
"A mech has needs," says Starscream sniffily, trying to snatch it back and only landing himself in Megatron's lap. He squirms prettily there, cockpit kicking up sparks on Megatron's chest plates. "This is juvenile!"   
  
" _This_ is definitely adult sized," says Megatron holding the object in question just out of reach. "Do I not satisfy? If this is what you're forced to resort to, I don't see how I can."   
  
Starscream growls and tries to make a lunge, but Megatron had been expecting this and tips them to the side to avoid it, dropping the spike to the covers. The resulting position change has him leaning beside the seeker, half trapping him with his bulk. Starscream's angry writhing abruptly takes on a different tone.   
  
"It must feel empty in there," he rumbles, tapping over the seeker’s pelvic plate. "What does it take to make you full?"   
  
"I just washed," whines Starscream, but he snaps his pelvic array open anyway. "Please..."   
  
"Start with these," he insists, taking Starscream's wrist and shoving his digits down between his thighs, encouraging the movement against his external node and the energon swollen lips of his valve. "Show me how much you need to fill you up."   
  
Starscream sighs breathily and struggles no more. His thighs fall apart welcomingly, letting Megatron see his pretty valve as it warms for him. Fresh lubricant decorates the mesh - his previous spend was long since washed away, more was the shame - and he is supple and welcoming around his own digits. Megatron watches hungrily, keenly, as his Seeker frags himself slowly with three digits, optics hazy and vents hitching as if he were remembering the feel of Megatron's spike doing the same. It spurs Megatron to action and he leans down to encourage the pace with his glossa, lapping in when Starscream's digits withdraw. The slick tastes sharp on his glossa and the building charge leaves his processor bubbling with fresh power.   
  
Before the temptation was too great he  forces himself away and gathers up the false spike. A lot of the oil has run off, but Starscream’s valve is more than wet enough by this stage. He catches the seeker's wrist and withdraws his digits, rubbing the broad pliable tip of the false spike between the mesh folds just for the size comparison. It looks good, so he pushes it forward and smirks as Starscream arches his back and opens easily around it. For every push forward he withdraws to just the tip, until he is fragging the seeker in long, slow strokes.   
  
At the same time, his spare servo has drifted down to the aft port plating, rubbing and pushing until the catches click and it moves aside.   
  
"You aren't putting that false spike anywhere near my aft," warns Starscream, sounding firm even as he's being fragged strutless.   
  
Megatron nods agreeably and rubs his slick digits over the port opening. "Of course not."   
  
"Ah... Why am I not convinced?"   
  
The tip of his index digit slips in, the irising port squeezing down and then flexing open a little more.

"I thought we had agreed that you need that big false spike to satisfy your valve," he mocks, pressing the heel of his palm against the base of the object in question, so it stretches the plump mesh of the valve. He can feel the pressure through the protometal of the port channel. "So I thought I'd move onto something a little tighter for my own satisfaction. Seems only fair."  
  
"You would think so, fragger," grumbles Starscream, but he hitches his hips into the touch a little more and gives a satisfying little yip when Megatron slips another digit into his aft. He stops his complaining after that, just settles to writhing and twisting his frame as he's opened up bit by bit.

Megatron digit-frags him thoroughly but efficiently. Soon he has three digits plunging in and out of the seeker's aft port, the iris slack and soft when he pauses to rub his digit pads over the opening. By this stage Starscream has managed to twist his torso to the right to bury his face in the pillows; Megatron takes advantage and realigns his legs sideways as well, so he can straddle the bottom thigh and wrap the other against his hip. This way his own thigh braces the base of the false spike and he can still reach the mechs port.

"What are you doing no-" Starscream bites off his own complaint and gasps; his aft opens easily about the tip of Megatron's own spike, but the resistance is through the protometal from the pressure of the false spike. Megatron has to take hold of the thigh cast over his hip and pull him down onto him, and it’s so tight it is almost excruciating.   
  
Starscream pants and moans and his hips twitch in tiny aborted movements that tap the base of the false spike against the boxy thigh pressed against his array. Every time he flinches away and then grinds down again, like he's not sure of the manifold sensations from his array. Lubricant spills freely from the mesh around the false spike, soaking Megatron's thigh and the sheets underneath as he overloads for the first time. His aft flutters and squeezes, the channel a tight choking grasp unlike the plush warmth of valve mesh but still good.   
  
When Megatron rolls his hips back the iris of the port grips him tightly, the oil essential to smoothing the way. He drips a little more on when the friction builds but otherwise just takes his time, fragging that tight hole with long deep strokes. This way, grinding the false spike in and out at counterpoint to his rhythm, he drives another overload out of Starscream, feeling the ghost of the charge crackle through the protoform to where his spike is so nicely encased.   
  
Now the false spike doesn’t fit quite as snugly, and the aft port is loosening with the relaxed protometal, Megatron has to thrust a bit harder, push a little more. Starscream is a strutless, voiceless mess, clenching his dentae into the berth sheets to strangle his cries as he's fragged roughly. Megatron half bends over him, bracing his thigh tightly against the false spike to drive it as deeply as possible and pounding into his aft channel.   
  
Starscream arches his frame almost impossibly taut and overloads for a third and final time, optics snapping offline and whole structure shuddering with the power output. Its clenches every substructure and conducts through into Megatron’s own protometals, blasting straight into his own array and tripping fuses with the power. He follow abruptly, roaring in triumph as he pumps transfluid into channel tubing and just about stops himself from collapsing with the shock.   
  
Afterwards, Starscream wriggles himself away and shivers as the new mess runs copiously from his array, neither port nor valve able to hold lubricant nor transfluid inside. He gives Megatron a baleful look and then wobbles off to scrub himself down.   
  
Megatron wipes the oil and lubricant off the discarded spike, places it carefully in the mesh bag and then stows it somewhere a little more accessible for future use. Some secrets are better shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More butts. 
> 
> I have a problem. 
> 
> I don't want the cure. Unless its Even More Butts.


	20. A Comfortable Seat (Cock-warming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron just wants to read his novel, but Starscream's feeling antsy.

This off-shift had been planned to perfection; he had taken delivery of a data-slug containing an old Cybertronian novel that had once been one of his favourites, found a shiny new data-pad for easy reading and ensured that only the most competent of staff were on-shift.   
  
What Megatron realises a few moments too late, as kliks after he settles into his most comfortable chair the door chime rings, is that this last stipulation meant that Starscream is  _also_ off-shift.   
  
He cannot even just ignore the chime, because off course the wretched glitch has the damned door codes. Starscream only rings to cause maximum disruption, even if he claims it's so he doesn't surprise Megatron and get a fusion cannon blast to the spark. This is proved nanokliks later, when the door beeps open and the blasted seeker swans in, glass of deep purple high-grade in servo. He's half over-charged already.   
  
With an admirable grace for a mech obviously not on his first glass of high-grade, Starscream tosses himself onto the berth - not spilling a drop of energon -  and lolls there, looking expectant. Clearly Megatron is supposed to react in some way - either shout at him to get out or just cross over and start mech-handling him immediately - but he has the datapad loaded and ready to go, so in turn he is not going anywhere.   
  
This earns him a few more moments of reprieve, before Starscream’s slightly addled processor twigs he might have to work a little more for attention. With a dramatic huff of engines, he hauls himself off the berth and throws himself into Megatron's lap instead. The datapad avoids being crushed by sheer dint of Megatron’s good reflexes, and he sets it aside along with Starscream’s glass.

“You are an over-dramatic, arrogant creature,” he growls, fending off a kiss and then relenting for just one. “If you are going to drape yourself over me then sit still.”

Starscream pouts. “Spoilsport.”

Megatron picks up the datapad again. The shapely aft in his lap wriggles provocatively, stirring friction against his pelvic plates. The plating over his spike pops as the metal expands with the heat, and starts to slide open. He sighs, slaps the datapad down and unceremoniously turfs the seeker out of his lap.

“What did I just say? Sit down there and be at peace!”   
  
Starscream looks up at him, slightly nonplussed, as if it had never crossed his mind that someone would ever turn him down. Whether it was do to with him being over-sexed or just arrogant was unclear. As ever the case with Starscream, unsurity was guaranteed to turn to anger in the end, and Megatron had been looking forward to his peaceful off-shift and this data-pad for orns.   
  
He settles a servo on the seeker's helm and pulls him back in, until his face plates brush into the crux of his pelvis and thigh. Encouraged, Starscream presses kisses to exposed protoform, and licks over the spike housing until the first few inches pressurise. Megatron declines to tell him it's mostly force of mind prompting the process, not when such lovely sharp dentae are within snapping reach.   
  
Starscream's mouth is warm and his glossa ever-nimble. A few more measures of pressure are eked out of Megatron's systems from a vague wash of arousal, his spike plumps out enough to fill Starscream's mouth. The seeker makes to suck harder, encourage him to full mast, but Megatron taps him on the cheek and shakes a digit.   
  
"Just keep it there," he says, "Keep your mouth occupied for a while."   
  
A displeased look flits across Starscream's handsome dark face, but Megatron extends the rest of his digits to caress his jaw and then grip the back of his neck; it somehow tames the beast. With a certain amount of shuffling, the seeker sinks into a more comfortable position knelt between Megatron's thighs and then casts his optics up. Megatron meets that nasty gaze for a moment and smirks - it is nice to have such a vicious creature humbled at his pedes - but the datapad is still close at servo and Starscream has left his cube of high-grade within reach.   
  
All in all, it makes for a an excellent off-shift. The high-grade is an excellent vintage and warms his tanks pleasantly, the novel just as good as he had remembered and there is a pretty face buried between his thighs, a wide mouth to warm his spike. Starscream kneels there, patient and silent for once in his life, and several times Megatron casts a glance down between chapters to ensure he hasn't fallen into recharge. His optics remain online, although dimmed and distant, and his cooling vents never fully click to silence. Perhaps the over-charge had put him in a more sedate mood that normal. Perhaps he likes being reminded of his rightful place in the world.

Megatron will have to further explore this possibility, but only after he's finished his book.  
  
Halfway through the novel, Megatron stumbles into a series of passages that he recalls, only vaguely explicit but still thoroughly pornographical. The first time he had read it he had been an indentured miner, clawing to find any scrap of something he could have called himself in a miserable existence, and the images constructed had grabbed a hold of his processor and refused to let go. He had self-serviced the first time he had read it, ashamed and recharge-deprived in the hovel that had contained the miners' berths.   
  
Things couldn't be more different now, and some part of him had feared that the relative comfort of his new lifestyle would blunt the pleasure he had once found in this section, but it still captures his processor and drags his optics on, and when he reaches the denouement his frame has begun to heat. Between his legs, Starscream shifts incrementally as the spike in his mouth firms more and fits a little less comfortably.   
  
Megatron takes a healthy swig of the high-grade and strokes the seeker's cheek again. "Slowly," he commands, "Use your mouth only."   
  
The resulting service is true decadence in its highest form. Starscream sucks him to full pressure and then runs over him with lips and glossa like he could sense the cadence of the glyphs Megatron is reading for the second time.

His protagonist tumbles into berth again with someone he should know he cannot trust, the fight for dominance tilting into something more seductive and  less frantic. By the time he reaches the climax of the scene, his overload is dangling over him and he scrolls back a couple sentences to reread a passage that gets him in the libido every time, where one mech arches their spinal struts as they are taken but it is the other who knows they are the one captured. He grunts and overloads into Starscream's welcoming mouth.  
  
Starscream swallows and grimaces faintly. Megatron offers him the remnants of the high-grade to wash the taste away and turns to a new chapter. Slowly, almost hesitantly, a warm mouth gathers up his spike again, drawing it into a warm embrace with a slick glossa. When he glances down Starscream's optics are hazy and sedate again.

“Halfway done,” he rumbles, mentally calculating the other sex scenes with a newfound interest. Starscream swallows about him and nuzzles in closer. “And then I’ll give you all the attention you need.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal head-canon is that Megatron is reading the Cybertronian equivalent of Twilight, because I think I'm funny.


	21. Aural Sex (Dirty Talk)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence is not always golden

"Lovely," Megatron groans. "So tight for me."

Starscream makes a noise like steam escaping from a pressurized pipe and shudders, clapping servos across his mouth. Megatron grips his hips and thrusts up harder, keen to elicit more sounds like that. Starscream is so obnoxiously noisy the rest of the time, but as soon as Megatron gets him in berth he goes silent.

“You have the sweetest valve,” he adds, and smirks as Starscream shutters his optics. “I’m going to slick you up so deep-”

“Stop talking,” wails Starscream. “Just stop talking, you brute!” But his valve cycles down tighter and his field hitches with almost painful arousal, and Megatron stores the response away for a later date.

"How terribly proper you are," he growls, but obeys. For now.

* * *

He leaves it for nearly a orn, doing nothing to respond to Starscream’s flirting but not discouraging the increasingly desperate attempts. By the end of it, Starscream is a snarling growling mess; his seeker armada cast baleful looks at Megatron whenever they see him for having to deal with his deteriorated mood. When Soundwave starts to get aggravated with the Air Commander’s behaviour, Megatron suspects the time is ripe to achieve his goal.

By stationing himself in a dark, barely used corridor between the labs and the command quarters and being very quiet, does Megatron stage a very successful ambush. In an instant he has Starscream pinned to a bulkhead.

Once the screaming dies down, Megatron nuzzles into Starscream’s helm and rasps a purr. It would be impossible to say that he had enjoyed the self-imposed celibacy himself - some of Starscream’s attempts to attract attention had been very difficult to ignore. Having that warm, smooth frame in his grasp again is glorious.

The temptation is very present to just heave the seeker up in his grasp and frag him against the wall, but Megatron has a goal in mind and he had not achieved all he had by taking shortcuts.

“How is my pretty seeker?” he rasps, directly into Starscream’s audial, using a frequency knows makes the mech weak at the knees and wet in the valve.

Starscream’s vocaliser pops with sudden static, but manages to grunt, “Not impressed. You ignore me for an orn and then harass me in a dusty corridor? I think not.”

“Poor thing. Should I leave you alone then?” He makes to step away, but Starscream’s servos lock into the top of his chest armour and pull him back.

“Don’t be stupid,” hisses Starscream, yanking him down for a kiss. His glossa is nimble and invasive, and Megatron lets him run the embrace for a few moments before he breaks away.

Tell me, Starscream,” he says, nudging back against the Seeker’s helm. “Does it get your valve wet to have me whispering in your audial like this? Telling you all the dirty things I'm going to do with you? I can feel your field jump every time I speak you know.”

It is true: Starscream’s field jerks with arousal and his frame temperature ticks up another degree with each word. He tries to snarl something along the lines of a denial and a command to shut up, but Megatron snaps out a servo and squeezes over his neck to silence him temporarily.

“Now, now. This is my time to talk.” He applies enough pressure to make Starscream’s vocaliser creak with interference and then lets go again.  “Do you think it’s enough to get you off? Can I make you overload with my voice alone? Or should I touch you? Would it be enough to run my digits along the inside of your thighs? Just the temptation…” He lets his servo ghost over the glossy curve of the cockpit, barely hard enough to stimulate the pressure sensors.“Should l be kind and actually touch you?”

Starscream nods abruptly, desperately. Megatron rumbles a laugh and does nothing of the sort, just leaning his weight in further to box the seeker in tighter. The one servo he does touch the seeker with reaches down to hold Starscream’s pelvic plate in place so it cannot retract. He knows the threat of being trapped and pinned does _things_ to Starscream’s libido.

“The klik we have a spare moment I am going to lay you out and frag you stupid. I think first I'll kiss your valve until you are soft and wet and writhing. You would just love for me to eat you out like that I'm sure.” He laps his glossa out and slides it carefully against the edge of Starscream’s helm vents. The seeker shudders.

“Mmm yes, you'd just be dying to have my spike inside you wouldn't you?” He pushes his hips forward so that Starscream can feel the heat and charge radiating from his pelvic plate, still closed by sheer force of will. His own servo over Starscream’s panel is keeping it closed by brute strength - he can feel the metal trying to shift under his digits. “Yes I can almost feel it - your hot little valve opening up ring by ring for my spike. Would it feel thick?”

Starscream nods shortly and Megatron's laugh is filthy with pleasure.

“I bet you'll sob for me. You always do in the end -  scream and cry and whimper into your servos. All I have to do is frag you for a couple thrusts and you fall to pieces about me. This time I think I might lie between your legs and ‘face you that way, but maybe next time I'll roll you over and do you from behind.”

Starscream gurgles. There is the silky soft ooze of lubricant flowing around the edges of his panel now.

“You like that? Perhaps I should face you like cheap shareware more often then. Plow your pretty ports like I paid for them? Leave you loose and slack and only fit for my spike to frag your hungry valve?”

“Please,” whines Starscream, “Please... I need..” It is as close to dirty talk as Megatron has ever managed to get out of him during interface and deserves a reward,

“Tell me which way you want it,” he says, grinding his palm up harder against the panel he is holding so the metal rubs against the swollen valve mesh below. Fresh lubricants squeezes out until Megatron's servo is wet with it. “And I'll give you some relief.”

“Oh.” Starscream whimpers and clutches at his chest even tighter, his razor sharp talons biting deep. His vocalise stalls and clicks and then pops back online. “Oh, from behind. You on top of me….”

“Good mech,” rumbles Megatron, pleased. He releases his grip on the panel and smirks as it snaps away with an audible crack. Lubricant pours forth to soak his servo and he slicks his digits liberally before he shows two deep into Starscream’s plush mesh. He frags him deeply and brutally as he leans in until their frames groan under the pressure. “I'll frag so good you won't remember your designation. You won’t remember how to do anything but writhe underneath me by the time I'm done with you.”

Starscream’s valve clenches and spills a fresh wave of fluid as the rest of his frame slumps into the supportive crush of Megatron's own. He gasps and moans - every noise music.

In the end, Megatron does heave him up, wrap those long legs around his hips and frags him mercilessly against the bulkhead. His efforts seem to have opened a fresh protocol in Starscream’s processor, and his experience is only bettered by the seeker’s panted moans and stuttered pleas for more. He does beg for Megatron’s spike, for a rough frag, for his valve to be filled with transfluid, and receives all three in surplus.

* * *

A cycle later Megatron is addressing his amassed Decepticons, roaring his rousing speech to encourage them to the cause when a private message pings into his processor. As he takes a break to let his vocaliser cool and the army cheers its approval, he briefly opens and then very quickly shuts the message again.

It’s from Starscream - right now standing a short distance beside Megatron’s throne and looking like energon wouldn’t melt in his mouth - and it is sheer unadulterated filth.

Megatron has created a monster. He’s rather pleased.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the point of a 'dirty talk' prompt if I can't use the Aural Sex cliche as a title?


	22. Privacy Settings (Sexy Pictures)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron is an unsuspecting victim in his Senior Officers' argument, but he does not discourage this in any way.

It starts as a disagreement between Starscream and Soundwave, over the use of comm messages and the privacy thereof. Some things Megatron finds best to leave for his second and third in command to bicker over - it distracts them from usurpation attempts for example - and ignores it right up until he becomes involved. 

* * *

The message is a set of quizzical glyphs and a photo of bright gleaming wings, freshly painted and beautiful. Megatron receives this in the middle of a meeting and does not let it distract him for more than a moment.

Across the table Starscream develops a mulish expression and becomes remarkably disagreeable for the rest of the cycle. Soundwave stares daggers at him across the table.

Megatron battens down for the inevitable.

* * *

The next message is predicted by Soundwave's helm snapping up from his console. Megatron is about to ask what the issue is when the comm message drops into his inbox. Soundwave's visor fixates on him, a silent plea to just not open the message, but Megatron is rather intrigued to see what has gotten such a reaction from  his third.   
  
This picture is of trio of handsome afts, each pert and freshly painted in blue, black or red, pressed hip to hip.   
  
Megatron gives the Elite Trine an extra orn for free patrols and says nothing more. Skywarp and Thundercracker refuse to make optic contact as they mutter thanks. Starscream remains ungrateful and sullen. 

* * *

Starscream is escalating. The more Megatron ignores him, the more it clearly grates on him and the harder he tries.   
  
For example, the third picture is near full body shot, straight down a sleek frame, gleaming and polished. Someone had worked hard with the buffer to get such a marvellous sheen.   
  
Megatron sends a message back asking how much time he has wasted preening and Starscream reportedly dislocates two digits punching a wall. Soundwave is smug for four cycles. 

* * *

Aside from the silent warfare, there is still an ongoing out and out battle occuring. At the next command meeting, Soundwave and Starscream are back at it again - Starscream making wild, and probably accurate, accusations of privacy invasion. Soundwave sits prim and proper and claims his full right as _Communications_ Officer to monitor all communications. This is also accurate.   
  
Starscream tells him that he'll regret it, and abruptly storms out.   
  
Soundwave makes a plea to his master to reign the seeker in, which Megatron is considering - there is no mech that should be allowed less access to unmonitored communications than Starscream - when another message arrives.   
  
It's a mouth that is unmistakably Starscream's, lips wide and plush, dented by the sharp tip of a talon. There's a twinkle of dentae just visible in the depths of the smirk, a subtle threat that his shenanigans might be curtailed.   
  
Megatron dismisses the meeting and Soundwave stares at him in silent disapproval as he gathers his datapads. 

* * *

At this point the odds start to tip back to Starscream's favour. Megatron knows he's being stupid, even as he informs Soundwave that monitoring his own private communications as leader of the Decepticon cause is unnecessary. Starscream lurks at the corner of the conversation and grins, pleased.   
  
This time he has received a spike pic. An honest to goodness spike pic. Megatron loads it on a datapad and takes a long time to stare at it, a bit nonplussed by the whole situation. To be fair it's a very nice looking spike, a nice size with handsome black and red plating and a few pretty biolights. There's a trace of silvery transfluid at the tip.   
  
Megatron looks at it for a long time and then stores the datapad safely by his berth.   
  
He says nothing to either mech, but neither Starscream nor Soundwave seem to want to address it. Soundwave announces he has a new task to concentrate on and can no longer concern himself focusing on trivial matters like monitoring private messages. Starscream develops an interesting aversion to making optic contact with Megatron, which does not make him seem any more trustworthy. 

* * *

Megatron checks his inbox regularly and tells himself that its sensible to monitor this - if Starscream is spending time taking silly pictures then he's got less time to rebel.  
  
By the time the next picture arrives, Megatron is keen to see what it will contain. He receives it while seated on his throne and decided to save it for later, to prolong the anticipation. By the time the shift is over and he can return to his rooms he's nearly desperate.   
  
He is not disappointed. It's of a pretty, pretty valve - outer lips plump with arousal and dark protometal slick with the translucent sheen of lubricant. The anterior node glows brightly between two taloned digits, alight with excitement.   
  
He spends a lot of time looking at this photo, until he is interrupted by a second message. This one is of the same valve, this time with those two digits plunging into the depths, and he possibly enjoys this one even more. His spike pressurises with ease and he strokes himself thinking about broad wings, pert afts and plump mouths, flicking back and forth between the images of that handsome spike and the pretty valve.   
  
He spills in short order, hissing a designation under his breath, and then finds himself a mess of transfluids but not of regret. He angles the datapad carefully and takes a shot of his belly, slick with his own spend, and his spike thick with residual pressure. Before he can engage any part of his processor not linked to his libido he sends it.   
  
Five kliks later there's a knock at his door and a comm for the door codes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next time one of the Autobots manages to hack into Decepticon comms they get SUCH a surprise.


	23. Too Much Information (Voyeurism)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one can prove Jazz did this on purpose, but neither can they disprove it.

The new scientific breakthrough than Optimus is summoned to see at definitely-should-be-in-recharge-o'clock on Earth's night-cycle is so small he has to engage secondary lenses to get his optics to focus on it. When he manages, he feels no clarity at the sight - it's a tiny little rotored thing, with a singular globular optic, balanced on Jazz' palm. Wheeljack lurks behind him, nodding frantically and finials flashing bright with excitement. 

"It's a spy cam!" says Jazz. "Let it loose over the ‘cons’ base and it'll hunt down the biggest racket it can. Beams the pictures straight back, live feed. It's gonna be great!"

There are probably many many ways this will go wrong. With Wheeljack involved, the best they might hope for is an explosion. But Optimus hasn't had a full recharge in a while, and Jazz seems so keen for it to work, so he agrees to the deployment and resigns himself to regretting it later.

* * *

When that time comes he is not much better rested, but at least it’s day time. On the other servo there are a range of other bots present, ready and raring to point out how bad an idea this is,

At the same time, the spy cam is working. It has apparently bounced its way into the Nemesis via the ductwork, and now hovers in a corner of the Decepticon mess hall above a table of noisy Vehicons. It turns out that Vehicons like to gossip. Unfortunately few of them appear to know much of use; it’s all hearsay and obvious half-truths. They move on soon enough and the little spy-bot wavers briefly before its feed blurs, taking off after some distant echoing sound through the halls.

The result is a whistlestop tour of the Nemesis: of an engine room in bits as mechanics examine the dead engines, of a medbay with a patient howling in pain, groups of gossiping, noisy, arguing mechs.

By the time the weekly officers’ meeting is due to start they have a decent idea of the Nemesis' infrastructure and not much else. Jazz leaves the feed running on the screen in the corner and mutes the noise as the spycam ricochets through the dusty vent system. The others file in - Ironhide, Prowl, Ratchet scowling heavily at Bumblebee who was squeaking keenly about something, among many others.

As ever Optimus has the thoroughly unenviable task of chairing the discussions. They are never particularly fraught but there are a lot of big personalities around this table. They get bogged down on a lot of topics and this is why they are still there when the spycam finally stumbles on an actually interesting target.

Optimus becomes slowly aware he is no longer the focus in the room, which would be a relief if not for the realisation of what is. There are a lot of wide optics around the table. The spycam has found its latest target - two mechs in the middle of interface across a desk. They are far too wrapped up in the act to notice the tiny spy tumble from the air-vent.

"Turn it off. We have all seen interface before," he chides, half-heartedly. "Let's grow up and act like mechs please."

"Yeah, boss," says Jazz absently, leaning his chin on his fist as he watches. "But have we seen _Megatron_ interfacing before?"

Optimus' gaze swings back to the screen as if drawn by magnets. Yes, he realises, that is indeed Megatron's broad pauldrons and big torso silhouetted in the dim light. He's gripping the hips of a smaller mech and thrusting hard against his aft. It's a seeker, judging by the waving, fluttering jut of wings, and further realisation dawns when the spycam’s optic adjusted to the low light.

"Colour me not surprised," says Ironhide. It's Starscream half collapsed on the desktop, clutching at his own mouth and optics screwed shut. "Explains why the Slagmaker keeps 'im about."

"Enough," says Optimus. "Get it out of there, Jazz. We are not watching this."

Jazz nods, even though there are a few disappointed faces in the room. Optimus has deep suspicions about what happens next. Somehow - instead of turning the screen off and directing the cam away - what Jazz actually does is turn the sound on instead.  At least he tries to look ashamed.

"Uh. Oops?"

The spycam is attracted to noise and movement after all. It has been hovering inconspicuously by the vent closest to Starscream's helm for a reason.

He was shrieking, the noise uncomfortably like someone had shoved a servoful of slate into a woodchipper. Every other word was a curse, leveled firmly against Megatron - his courage, his leadership skills and very much against his spike and ability to use it.

"Am I not fragging you hard enough then?" rumbles Megatron. His big fists tighten on the seeker's hips until plating bends slightly, and he drives in harder.

Starscream wails and sobs, driving his talons into the desk until he punctures straight through the metal. This earns him exactly no quarter. In fact it might make Megatron frag him harder. Certainly the shrieking - near incomprehensible now - gets louder and even more inventively vile, and his claws dig deeper.

Megatron chuckles, deep as thunder, and leans down a little more. One of his servos grasps Starscream's throat and squeezes until the seeker's vocaliser blasts feedback.

"We will need to teach you how to shut up and take it again, won’t we?" He squeezes again, to another wail of static, and then shoves three digits deep into Starscream's intake. The mech bucks and tries to twist away, but Megatron is too strong and pins him in place. He fucks his digits in and out in time with his thrusts, and Starscream is reduced to frantic choking moans.

Drawn to the new epicentre of noise and movement, the little spycam starts a slow circuit. It pans down the scene, single optic focused tightly on the grinding bodies like a practised cameramech until it is hovering directly behind them instead.

As it turned out Starscream had good reason to be howling. His valve, handsome with dark protometal mesh and a brightly glowing anterior node, is fully visible and clenching on thin air. Megatron's thick spike is driving hard into his aft port instead. On a particularly hard thrust, Optimus feels his own array clench in sympathy. An aft port would stretch someway, but this seemed to tilt into the realm of probably not comfortable.

Nevertheless Starscream's neglected valve is dripping with lubricant, small sparks of charge dancing on his nodes. Perhaps he has overloaded already, judging by the amount of each. There must be pleasure in it somewhere.

"That explains a lot of the screamin'," says Ironhide. He sounds thoughtful. A lot of the other mechs have similar expressions on their face plates. A few have the distant looks of bots using private comms. Optimus dare not imagine what they are talking about. His own comms ping with tempting offers from various parties.

From his angle, he can see that Jazz' right servo is creeping up Prowl's left thigh.

"Enough," he says again. His vocaliser is layered with aroused static, but thankfully no one appears to notice. "Jazz!"

On screen, Megatron's thrusts are reaching cruelty in intensity. They have a great view of the full length and breadth of his spike plowing that tight little port. It pops out briefly on a back thrust, displaying the slack iris of the port weakly trying to clench tight again, and then drives straight back in. There's a choked scream in response; which Megatron appears to enjoy, for he repeats the action until his engine is roaring and his thrusts are desperate.

Optimus' own array is sending urgently messages that it would like to online _right_ _now_ _please_. It dawns on him that he's about to witness his current nemesis climax, in a roomful of his closest companions who he will never be able to look in the optic again. Jazz' servo is now definitely on Prowl's pelvic plating and he is clearly not paying attention to shutting the spycam down.

It is Ratchet - dear, grumpy Ratchet - who breaks the spell. He gets up, stumps over and disconnects the connection via a wrench directly into the middle of the screen.

"Unlike you overcharged fools, some of us have work to do," he growls to a chorus of disappointed calls. Prowl nearly shoves Jazz off his chair as the spell breaks. "Can we finish here please and then you can go frag each other in _private_?"

Optimus has never been so glad to agree. He has an interesting set of messages to get to for one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA the most exciting Autobot meeting that no one could ever find the minutes for.


	24. Groupie (Size Difference)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Starscream struggles to remember why he tolerates Megatron. Sometimes he definitely remembers

By some unspoken rule, on this cycle every vorn, they meet in one or other of their berthrooms. This time it is Starscream's; he has been waiting for joors now, standing in front of his desk with a datapad in his servo like he was reading it.

It is a cheap polemic, dependant on hackneyed metaphor and with too few original points for it to be a truly revolutionary piece of literature. Whoever has transcribed this particular copy had only a tentative grasp of spelling and a worse one for grammar. Nevertheless, the first time Starscream had read it he had nearly cried. That had been a long time since, but it still stirred something in his spark when he read those first few words.

He had found the burgeoning Decepticon movement within the orn, and never looked back.

Despite his apparent engrossment in the datapad, he still senses the opening of the door and the thud of heavy pedes. The frame that nearly brushes the back of his own is huge and familiar in a way only thousands of vorns could bring.

Megatron plucks the datapad from his servo. "I published much better than this," he says, "And yet this is your favourite."

Starscream shrugs and snatches it back. "What can I say. I'm sentimental."

Megatron's frame shakes with his laughter. "Is that so?"

"That or I like foolish old dross. Speaking of which, how are you?"

This earns him a tweak of a wingtip, but no more censure than that. His master is in a good mood. Since it is the anniversary of the first time they had interfaced, Starscream can just about guess why.

"I am surprised you don't have a processor short-cut yet, between reading that book and what we do every time." Those digits are getting very friendly with his tailerons now.

He snorts and flicks his wings out of reach briefly. They settle back down nanokliks later, right into Megatron's waiting grasp. "Unlike some mechs', my memories haven't been overwritten yet. If I need warmed up, I can just recall what we do."

"What we did the first time," says Megatron, tone undeniably warm with lust. "That's all I need to remember. Everything else is filler."

"You think your showing that first time was the best?"

"You were crying by the end."

Starscream splutters. "It was hardly a testimony to your skill. I was just overcharged."

"Perhaps from the high grade you insisted on gulping after catching sight of me." Megatron nudges forward a little. He sounds smug. "Of my spike."

"Excuse me for having a functional risk calculation module." Despite his acerbic tone Starscream eases back a little into the embrace behind him. He always has liked feeling the bulk of a bigger mech against his back.

His first glimpse had been a passing glance in a shadowy corner as Megatron had parted from the touch of one of the many groupies that flirted their way past bouncers to ogle gladiators up close.  Starscream had been tempted long before that but that suggestive glimpse of equipment had been too much to resist. On full exposure, as it were, he had been a little startled.

It had fit, in the end. Maybe it had been a little overwhelming. He _definitely_ had been overcharged. After a few millennia of experience though things fit together a lot more smoothly. But the memory was still clearly pleasant for the both of them; Megatron's interface panel was scalding against the base of his wings.

"I was having you regardless of how much you complained. Orns of you fluttering around me, flashing your wings..."

Coming back covered in the life-blood of those who dared oppose the new regime had been the final straw. Starscream had tossed a digit of the high ranking mech he had double-tapped through the processor at Megatron's feet as proof of his kill and within the joor had found himself on a scratchy mesh berth as he was ravaged thoroughly. Luckily the high grade had been close to servo.

In the here and now, he stretches and lofts his wings a bit higher - they clatter gently against Megatron's chest, picking up the rolling hum of his EM field. He likes the way they look reflected in the oily film of the mirror above his desk, his own lithe form bright against the hulking shadow of Megatron's.

"I was tempting fate," Starscream agrees, spinning on a thruster to face Megatron instead.

"Just tempting in general," Megatron chuckles in return, bowing his helm to kiss him lightly. It's practically chaste, but does something just _terrible_ to Starscream's whole system. He feels lit up, like a runway at night.

"Frag me already," he demands, "Frag me like one of those silly groupies that used to hang off you."

"Is that what you wanted to be?"

"Oh, I had better aspirations," Starscream leans up on the tips of his pedes, wings stretching behind him to stabilise his frame. "But it's fun to pretend."

Megatron kisses him, grabbing him about the waist as Starscream leans all the weight he can against that big boxy chest. The big mech obediently steps backwards until his knee joints hit the edge of the berth and then sprawls down as he's pushed.

"How many battles have you won?" Starscream crawls forward over the big mech's legs, keeping his back struts dipped and his wings high and wide. "I've heard you're the best."

Megatron blinks, slow and amused, optics trending along the slope of struts to the curve of his aft. "I am. You, however, are a forward little Seeker, aren't you?"

"When you want something, you have to take it." Starscream slaps his servo to the mech's pelvic plate. "Incidentally, open this."

"Since I clearly have no option." When the plate draws back, the spike beneath pressurises instantly, filling into Starscream's servo like it belonged there. Even with his long talons, it was a nice servo-ful.

"You're big," he murmurs, stroking a few tentative digits over the silvery surface like he were coy and unsure. Megatron reclines back and watches with a look of pleased amusement, a little like the whole show was beneath him but he didn't plan on stopping it. "Will you fit inside me?" He strokes again, pushing the length up against the mech's thick belly and bowing his helm to lick a long slow path from base to tip, sucking a droplet of salt rich lubricant from the tip without breaking optic contact. "Maybe I could use my mouth instead..?"

In an instant, Megatron has him by a wing, and he hisses and spits a curse as he's dragged to the side onto his servos and knees. Megatron hovers over him, covering him from aft to shoulders with his great scarred bulk. It's nearly claustrophobic how enclosed he is. His array panelling slides open instinctively, lubricant dripping freely down his inner thigh.

"If you use your mouth, you'll be taking it in your throat when I'm done with you," Megatron growls. "So you might want to rethink that."

Starscream swallows around the memory of being pushed to his knees and being made to take that lovely spike deep into his intakes, and arches himself into the all-encompassing embrace.

"Pretty whore," growls Megatron, nudging his spike forward.

Without preparation, the stretch is immediate and overwhelming. Starscream slightly regrets not having had a few mouthfuls of high grade to relax his systems, but it’s too late now to do anything but moan and clutch the berth sheets. When the resistance is too great the pressure slackens off and then presses back in, until Megatron is sinking deep with every thrust. With an unerring ability, his spike batters into the sensitive nodes at the heights of Starscream's valve until the seeker is nearly incoherent.

He's vaguely aware his vocaliser seems to have taken a mind of its own, bleating helpless glyphs about how he's being split open, how big the spike pounding his tight valve is, how good it all feels. It would be humiliating, if his processor had any active memory free for humiliation. As it is, Megatron appears to like it; he tucks his helm down over Starscream's shoulder so his audial is closer to the sound, and pumps his hips harder.

Whenever Starscream whines about how he's being brutalised this earns him a growl and a huge servo catching him around the throat. He whimpers as he's drawn up on to his knees, back and wings crushed to Megatron's broad front.

"You wanted the gladiator experience," snarls Megatron, vents blasting out hot air over Starscream's shivering wings. "So you should be thanking me."

At this angle, it feels like his spike sinks to Starscream's fuel tanks with every thrust. The digits around his throat squeeze sharply, cutting into the main energon lines and leaving Starscream's processor swimming even more. It highlights the precariousness of his position, being manhandled by an oversexed gladiator, outsized and, at least temporarily, outclassed. His frame is going limp as his processor muddles along on half-rations, just able to manage the significant new sensory input from his array given its deprivation.

"Good little seeker," snarls Megatron, giving him a moment's worth of reprieve before clamping his servo down hard again. "Just a pretty plaything for my berth." He hunches over a little more, powerful jerks of his hips to punctuate every word. His voice is pure sin, rumbling into Starscream's audials like poison. "I'll frag you until I'm done, and throw you out with the rest of them. You'll never find another mech like me to take you, even if you search the whole galaxy."

 _Primus_ , Starscream believes him.

"You might want this champion gladiator to warm your valve for the cycle," continues that smoky growl, distracting Starscream's now fully befuddled processor from even the myriad of signals from his array. "But what I want is my devious lieutenant, hungry for glory, wicked and ruthless as he claws for everything he thinks ought to be his due. That's a mech that knows how to take me on properly..."

He chuckles, evil and amused. More than anything it’s the sound of his laugh that infiltrates Starscream’s consciousness, awakes some of that ruthless wickedness.

It's a difficult angle, but Starscream twists his arm and powers up a null-ray. The barrel clicks against the underside of the chin draped over his shoulder, and Megatron laughs again. His throat is released pointedly slowly, one digit at a time, and the overheated bulk pressed to his back eases away. He can't help but groan in loss when the spike slips free of his valve.

"Ah." Megatron keeps his servos raised obnoxiously, so Starscream keeps the null-ray humming. "There he is." He settles onto his haunches, and pats his thigh. "Come here, Starscream. I have your due right here."

"You're an idiot," says Starscream, but he crawls to get what is owed to him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I hypothesising that the only reason they deal with each other is because of the shagging? 
> 
> Yes.


	25. Bold as Brass (Genital Piercings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream could pretend the side effects of his new installations are unintended, but that would make him even more of a liar than normal.

Out of self-preservation, Starscream has calculated the duration he could stay out of Megatron's clutches and not been suspected of a new plot to the joor. His time is now up in no uncertain terms, but coaxing his leader down from the weird possessive rage he had worked himself into is simple.

He just hops up onto the nearest console - what a pity it's Soundwave's - spreads his legs and slips his panels away.

For a moment Megatron, buoyed by his own pointless anger, continues his rant. But his optics catch and focus on the new accoutrements, his processor struggles to catch up and his words fade. Finally he pads forward and braces a servo on the inside of Starscream's knee to open everything up a little more. He stares and says nothing for a long while.

It starts to get a little nerve-wracking. Not that Starscream did this for the bucket-helmed fool's enjoyment, but a little approval would be appreciated. It looks good anyway; he knows because he's spent a long time with a mirror. The new biolights trim his dark mesh with a deep red glow, and the strips of new metallic sensors glimmer like gold into his depths. He's even had a ring of the electro-plated palladium  placed through the nub of his anterior node, and now spare charge grounds through the loop and snaps against his node.

So it would feel good too, if the old slagger would get a move on.

He watches, vents paused and sudden tension in his frame, as the fine lenses in Megatron's glowing optics spin and zoom. A huge dark fist slides down the inside of his thigh and, with surprising delicacy, brushes a thumb digit against the node piercing. Starscream's whole body shudders with the sensation, tension abruptly sapping from his struts.

"I see you got your crown here then," says Megatron, rubbing the hoop between two digits now. He tests how it rolls through his grip, how he can tug on it, building force until finally the pressure is too much and Starscream's vocaliser chokes with static as he overloads. Lubricant rushes out of his valve, as every new connector sears through with charge, so much more sensitive than before. Megatron dips his digits in it thoughtfully and then licks it off his thumb.

"Do you like it?" Starscream wheezes breathlessly, feeling his back struts bow again under the continuing flow of charge.

"Red and gold always were your best colours," says Megatron absently. He pops his spike panel, pressurising immediately - Starscream arches his body invitingly and gasps as the thick, hot weight of that glorious spike settles against his valve lips. As ever, charge flowed pleasantly from protometal to protometal, but the strips of extra sensors channels the power almost excruciatingly to the grounding loop in his node. By the way the bigger mech hisses and squeezes his grip on Starscream's thigh, he too also receives some of the excess feedback. When his hips jerks forward, the blunt tip slides over the gold hoop and both of them shudder at the bolt of charge.

Nearly insane with the constant flow of power through his array, Starscream tries to tilt his hips and encourage a deeper press, to fill his aching valve and soothe the searing nodes within with the crush of a big spike. But Megatron has him pinned with one servo alone, and pins him further with the other settling on his abdomen. All the slagger does is grind his spike forward so every platelets clicks against his node, and then drag back through the slick mesh.

He's so turned on, his array still so heated and full of charge that his mesh feels as swollen as it can be, and it squeezes against the rigid length obscenely. His new red biolights flicker on and off with the surges of charge; not that he can see with the weight of the mech's servo on his belly, but Megatron's optics are fixated on the sight between Starscream's thighs. He certainly seems to like what he's seeing, judging by the slow, pointed nature of his thrusts.

"My lord," he groans, voice glitzing with his previous overload and the threat of a second. "My lord, please..."

"Greedy," says Megatron, but on his next slide back he briefly uses the digits he had been using to pin Starscream open to reposition his spike for the next push forward. HIs spike drives in like it was meant to be there, and rakes every new sensor node on the way. Starscream shrieks, briefly overcoming the strength of his master's arm to lunge forward and grab the mech across the shoulders. Every one of the new metallic strips  spiralling up his mesh clatters against a corresponding sensor on Megatron's spike, so the pleasure transmits as if through a complete circuit. He can feel the pleasure up into his fuel tanks.

"Don't stop!" he growls, digging talons into Megatron's back plates until he feels something give. "Don't you dare fragging stop!"

For his part, Megatron looks a little startled but not unhappy with the new sensations. His vents are gawping open, blasting hot vapour rich air, and his engine rumbles like a drill biting through rock. He bucks his hips forward a little more and lets loose an impressive curse as the sensitive tip of his spike lands a direct hit against the upgraded ceiling node. Starscream would be cursing too if his processor wasn't directing essential processing power to managing the inputs from his array. It's so good it's almost intolerable.

Megatron essays an exploratory thrust and snarls in pleasure as the connections disappear and snap back into position. He sets about fragging Starscream absolutely stupid, pounding into him until the console starts to creak beneath the force. There is a moment when some part of Starscream's processor worries they might collapse the whole thing to the decking, which makes him grab harder and clutch to Megatron all the tighter.

Every new sensor drives against conductive protometal with a searing blast of charge, and as Megatron grinds himself home the piercing through his anterior node grinds against pelvic plating. Starscream is undone just like that, shrieking until his vocaliser pops, and raking his talons across broad shoulders. Megatron clearly aims to frag him further, but cannot manage  more than two thrusts before the power searing his circuits wins out and he spills deep inside. Starscream shudders at the sensation, but keeps himself firmly wrapped around his lord and master for a moment longer.

Megatron permits it for perhaps a few kliks before he disentangles himself and steps away. He wipes the worst of the mess from his plates with a grimace and battens all hatches back down again, but Starscream is drenched in his own lubricants and now thick, silvery strands of transfluid. Personally he's not even sure that he can close his interface panel over his valve given how swollen he is.

"My compliments to your designer," says Megatron. "They did a remarkable job." He reaches out and tweaks the node piercing with indelicate digits - Starscream jumps and gasps, his valve clenches down in aftershocks, dripping further streams of lubricant and transfluids. "Come back to my quarters and let me inspect your new additions a little more thoroughly."

There's a devious light in his optics that worries Starscream slightly. He expresses as much.

Megatron chuckles and shrugs. "Fine. Stay here then and have fun explaining to Soundwave what happened to his console."

Starscream chooses the lesser of the two evils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seekers are not the only mechs attracted to shiny things. 
> 
> IN FACT, I would hypothesise that a species basically made of metal are probably instinctually bound to be attracted to shiny things. A well polished aft is probably the height of Cybertronian mainstream sexy. (Kinky mechs like it when its scuffed. You know the sort.)


	26. Load Bearing (Against a wall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the mood just takes them. If this happens to happen in a third floor corridor, then a mech has to improvise.

Starscream's whole frame feels like it’s burning already, totally at the mercy of the warlord currently pinning him to a wall. He can just about moan desperate gasping prayers to Primus as his sensor net lights up in response to the vicious, perfect fragging he's being given. 

His legs are tight about Megatron's waist, his back slammed hard against a bulkhead and sparks snapping from his wing surfaces at the friction as Megatron thrusts into him with deep fast movements. His pleasure is clearly secondary, but it’s not a great trouble with that glorious thick spike stretching him open. Wriggling a servo between their clashing frames means that he can trip sensors around his own spike housing and his anterior node. His other servo clutches to a great pauldron, scratching deep gouges into thick plating, and he leans in to nip at the warlord's clenched jaw, the column of the wiring in his throat.

He does like it like this, wild and spontaneous and brutal. To be picked up and held, owned by such brute force, the target of desperate, dangerous lust: it's just perfect. His digits press down hard on his anterior node, jarred by Megatron's thrusts, and Starscream overloads with a startled shout. His valve cycles tightly on the spike coring him open, and Megatron does not stop for one moment, just frags him harder, so the charge cannot fade and all Starscream can do is shriek and thrash. Megatron's bulk is too heavy, powerful to shake away, so there's nothing for it but to let him continue.

Power burns and bites, corrupting the feeds from his audials, his optics, sensors other than the seething nodes scoured by Megatron's spike. Starscream's vocaliser spits garbled noise. He cannot even plead for reprieve before he goes mad from the sheer overwhelming force of his charge. Desperate, feeling he might go insane, his face bumps the thick tangle of cables at Megatron's throat, where he had been sucking kisses earlier. He bites, sinking sharp dentae in and tasting energon rising to his glossa. Megatron bellows and thrusts deep three more times and Starscream howls as the charge detonates in the core of his frame and his second overload hits like a fission bomb. 

He comes back to himself a few kliks later. Megatron still has him pinned to the bulkhead, spike gradually depressurising amid the seep of warm conductive transfluid. Every drip and shift triggers another spasming shot of charge. 

It takes three goes to reset his vocaliser to demand to be set down. 

Megatron moves like Starscream himself feels, like his gyros and joints are discombobulated after such a massive electrical discharge. He staggers when he's set down and clutches a servo between his thighs at the sudden pang. Closing his pelvic panels is entirely necessary but horrible. Transfluid and lubricant instantly pool and leak at the seams. 

On the other servo this is a public corridor. No one needs to see his valve after such a thorough frag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who catches them at it looks at Starscream with a lot more respect afterwards, because that is some punishment he's taking.


	27. Over Capacity (Fisting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's important to stretch the limits of what's possible from time to time.

Oil drips slowly down his arm, to the point of his elbow, easing the click in the joint as he flexes gently, pushing forward in to the burning heat that's swallowing his servo whole. His palm is awash with the slick, his knuckles shining at the point where four of his digits disappear into Starscream's clenching valve. The Seeker can apparently no longer control his responses as Megatron fucks him slowly with most of his servo; moaning helplessly with each push and pull, thighs twitching, his own servos hovering above his cockpit like he had been intending to reach for something and had forgotten halfway through.

There is still half the oil left in the bottle. His digits softly rubbing the swollen mesh of Starscream's valve lips, Megatron slowly upends the bottle over the seeker’s pelvis. It pours, thick and viscous, over the hard spike, the throbbing anterior node and Megatron's crooked, welcoming digits. He tucks his thumb into the puddle in the centre of his palm and waits for Starscream's body to flutter into brief relaxation. Starscream sobs as he pushes deeper, but it’s not out of pain and his valve takes the intrusion with little resistance.  It's a slow act, almost hypnotic, as he pushes a little deeper each time, withdrawing back when the Seeker tenses and pushing forward minimally when he relaxes. Steam is collecting in the berthroom as their vents desperately attempt to shed the heat from their charging frames.

Megatron's own spike pulses in his free servo, with hot and deep arousal. There is a strut-deep, twisted longing in his spark - to see Starscream come to pieces, to feel him break around his fist, until he's a shattered creature totally at his mercy. The thought prompts him to thrust in harder, and Starscream cries out as his valve finally gives enough to swallow the widest breadth of Megatron's fist.

From there, he pushes deeper and deeper, until Starscream's whole body is trembling. Megatron can feel every throb through his folded digits, as he twists until his knuckles ride up on the soft mound of an internal node. His knuckles follow the sensors; a good portion of his wrist is swallowed into that sweet warmth, and he follows the line of nodes until Starscream howls  and bucks his hips to relieve the pressure on his sensor net.

Drawing back earns more noise, frantic sobbing and static glyphs that might be the syllables of Megatron's name, perhaps begging, all of it music.

He grinds back up, stretching his digits back so the stretch is harder, the friction just on the right edge of too much, and then turns his wrist one last time so it’s the base of his thumb that tortures the biggest node. Starscream's noises tip into silence, his mouth open and vocaliser clicking, his whole body tensing. His valve drives down hard and then harder still  as he overloads and overloads and overloads, until his optics abruptly snap dark and his whole frame collapses onto his ruined sheets.

Withdrawing is almost torture, pulling away from soft, slick mesh until his servo slips free in a rush of oil and lubricant and he can lean closer, lean his helm on an overheated thigh and enjoy the sight of Starscream's valve. It's still open and sloppy; the external calipers stretched beyond immediate recovery by his own servo. Megatron's spike jumps in his grasp, demanding attention, demanding recompense from his ignoring it while he had tortured his Second to such a beautiful destruction.

The berth creaks under his knees as he moves up,  kneeling over Starscream's lax thighs and gripping his spike with his drenched servo. It's almost too slick, too little friction, but his processor is primed to release his charge and he pumps fiercely for only a moment more before he presses the head of his spike to the gaping valve and overloads, pumping spurt after spurt of transfluid to mark this canvas as his own work of art.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These dirty, dirty robots.


	28. Sweet Dreams (Sleepy/Affectionate Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream might already be in recharge, but if he is then this is a nice dream.

The hiss of the door opening and the creak of purposefully ungreased tracks disturbs Starscream from his recharge. He has had a long orn of flight and combat, and every inch of his frame feels tired, but there's no excuse for being caught sleeping.   
  
He squints, digits curling around the energon blade tucked down the side of the berth and then sighs as he recognises the pace of heavy pedes and the questing EM field. Megatron.   
  
"Are you online?"   
  
Starscream sighs, and wriggles into the covers a little more securely. If he's going to be dragged out he's going to make it as difficult as possible.   
  
"No," he says mulishly.   
  
"Charming," says Megatron, but grumbles little more. He closes the door behind him and crosses to the berth. Metals creaks as he sits on the edge, and he's close enough for Starscream to reach out a servo and hook a claw underneath an external back strut. "You were gone a long time."   
  
"I got the energon though," says Starscream, pinching a bit out of spite. He had travelled half a galaxy to hunt the signals of the untapped energon source. He feels accomplished in a strange spark-deep way- the success of tracing energon appeals to his instincts, gives a sense of contentment that little else compares too. His processor is that of a scientist, a soldier, but he cannot shake his seeker heritage. "I found it."   
  
"You did," purrs the warlord, surprisingly amenable to his second's boasting for once. He reaches out and strokes down the nearest wing. "You did very well. But you were gone a long time."   
  
Lulled by the petting of his wing, soothing the trembling flight sensors still singing from so long alight, Starscream has nearly fallen back to recharge when the big mech moves again. He's too comfortable to do much more than grumble wordlessly when the berth rocks under a heavy frame lying down, or when his own frame is eased on top like a strange blanket. Big servos hook around the back of his knees to haul his legs either side of bulky thighs, and adjust their position so their pelvic plates are close.   
  
"I missed touching you," growls Megatron. His intentions are rapidly becoming clear. Starscream's not sure he has the energy to complain about the blatant manhandling. Anyway a nice overload would probably be the trick to knocking his overclocked processor into reboot and recharge.   
  
As long as he doesn't have to do any of the work of course. He voices as much and retracts his pelvic plate.   
  
"Lazy," says Megatron almost fondly, already stroking thick digits across his valve rim. The first goes in too dry, but the sensation of intrusion eases as his interface array warms up. Starscream tucks his face into neck cabling, smelling musky armour polish and the tang of grease, and relaxes into it. The push of digits into his array, the heat of the frame beneath his own and the close beat of a spark near his chest all serve to lull him further.   
  
"You should hurry up and spike me," he murmurs. "Or I'll go to recharge right here."   
  
"I assure you that would not stop me," says Megatron but he withdraws his digits and carefully lifts Starscream's pelvis to the right angle where the tip of his spike kisses into the mesh of valve lips. It takes a moment and then a groan is torn from Starscream's vocaliser as he's filled in a slow, determined thrust.   
  
The position and angle isn't superb for a hard frag or to brush many of the deeper nodes, but it's a satisfying sensation to be filled after so long. Starscream sighs in contentment and wriggles in closer, as one big servo strokes the space between his wings and the other rocks his valve onto that thick spike. They grind together in this slow dance for a long time, all heat and building friction against shallow sensors. To Starscream, it feels like he's been here forever and no time at all, spread and impaled and held tightly. It sends a thrill through his exhaustion addled processor to be treated like this.   
  
Involuntary murmurs squeak from his vocaliser, wordless but pleased, and there's a deeply satisfied echoing rumble from the depths of Megatron's frame. Condensation starts to collect in the air, sizzling on contact with superheated wires and plating, and building charge dances along the conductive fluids. He hooks his claws into the crevices of Megatron's plating, and the mech beneath his grunts at the sensation.   
  
The thick spike surges up and in, both servos grabbing his aft now, and Megatron groans like someone has stabbed him in the spark as thick, hot transfluid pumps into Starscream's valve and his overload manifests as a sharp shock washing against sensitive nodes.   
  
Starscream whines and sighs and overloads himself, the charge dissipating in a rolling wave that knocks out sensor after sensor across his frame, until his processor is just hanging on.   
  
"Starscream?" He distantly hears Megatron murmur. "Are you online?"   
  
He doesn't deign to answer. Anyway he's pretty sure he's not anymore. It would make sense, given Megatron's next words.   
  
"I missed _you_.”


	29. Consolation Prize (Cock Worship, Blowjob)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Starscream is nice, he's very, very nice. And happily, very _bad_ at the same time.

"Lie down."

Megatron stares at the seeker mulishly and refuses to move from his standing position. It had been a poor cycle indeed, and he is certain he has little time for Starscream's shenanigans. His whole frame aches, his processor pinging irritating failure notifications every few nanokliks, and most importantly, his ego is dented.

"Hook never said anything about audial failure," snips Starscream.

"Go annoy someone else," growls Megatron, trying to convey the latent urge to smash the glitch's helm against the wall via tone alone.

Starscream grants him an unimpressed look, steps up and then does something complicated with the back of Megatron's knee and his own thruster heel. The result is that Megatron crumples to the berth surface with a roar of surprise and pain and then suddenly has a taloned servo holding him down via the pelvic plating. It’s very undignified.

He takes a breath to bellow his rage, but Starscream leans forward and presses a long digit to his lip plates.

"I'm trying," he says, "To do something nice for once. _Lie_ _down_."

Starscream is indeed trying, very, very hard to be nice. This much is obvious, because as soon as Megatron obeys and lies flat there's is a seeker crouching between his thighs, busying his normally vicious mouth kissing his plating. It leaves little time for him to be snide in between.

He sucks at the dented plating on a thigh, licks into the strained cabling at a hip joint, runs the flat of his glossa over the ridges of Megatron's carburettors until they're shivering with the revving of his engines. And it's done in blessed, sweet silence. That's possibly the best bit of all.

Evil talons cup over his pelvic plate and flick open the catches with devious expertise. If the rest of the cycle had not gone so badly, Megatron might be embarrassed by the current non-reaction of his spike; as it is it does not currently rank on a list of worst things to happen for some time.

Regardless, Starscream seems pleased. His mobile mouth twists into a pleased smirk, and his optics go half lidded as he trails his digits over the bulge of the spike housing. There are sensitive, delicate nodes around the rim there, and the wicked tips of Starscream's normally deadly talons dance over them as soft as a whisper. He shivers and lets his thighs fall out a little more, so the Seeker can shuffle in closer, lay down near flat on his belly and lean his helm against Megatron's hip. The ex-vents from his mouth encourage the warmth building in Megatron's protometal, and soon his spike has started to pressurise.

This seems to pique Starscream's enthusiasm. His mouth and glossa are instantly in action, licking and kissing at the delicate platelets and nodes as full pressurisation was achieved. As energon was directed into the spongy mesh of his spike, the sensors were driven more firmly against the surface platelets and everything became increasingly sensitive. Starscream's attentiveness only grew, until Megatron could safely say there was not an inch of his spike that had not been mapped by lips and glossa.

Whenever they had previously interfaced, Starscream's interactions with Megatron's spike had traditionally been via the tight grasp of his valve, mainly because letting such a crazy glitch with sharp dentae near such a prize possession was universally regarded as a poor idea. The few times Megatron had encouraged anything similar, one or both of them had been overcharged and the resulting frag had been sloppy and less focussed. Now, as every part of his spike is systematically worshipped Megatron rather regrets not giving this a go sooner.

On the other servo, he's not sure if his fuel pump could handle a regular occurance like this. Starscream has a struck a pattern, starting at the base and working his way up, suckling and kissing every node and biolight as he goes, then tracing the sensitive ridge below the head and finally swiping the broad side of his glossa across the tip to lap up the traces of transfluid bubbling at the tip. Once that is done, he circles back down again and repeats the whole process until Megatron's taxed processor is simultaneously blank and spinning.

It is almost startling when Starscream breaks out of his almost worshipful pattern and lets the tip push deeper between his lips. He's careful with his fangs, but liberal with his glossa and pushes the broad tip into the mesh of his cheek to rub out a little friction. Megatron cannot help but thrust up a little into wet heat, and gets a taloned sevo pressed onto the breadth of his thigh. Starscream has long digits but even his servo-span is small in comparison to the bulk of the bigger mechs thigh. Megatron goes still regardless, totally at the mercy of this lithe Seeker and his hungry mouth.

His spike is sucked with almost professional skill and no small show of enjoyment - Starscream's wings are wide and bold, his optics bright and focused wholly on Megatron's face. Perhaps he is watching for the play of expressions that indicate when he finds a sensitive spot or makes a particularly audial pleasing choked noise, perhaps he just wants to see his lord and commander come apart at the seams. At this point, Megatron is happy to oblige either.

His overload rolls down from his lowest spinal strut, jumping from sensor to sensor until his whole array is alight with blazing energy and he can feel the clench of his transfluid reservoir start to pump. He manages to keep his optics on just enough to make out the silvery spray of his transfluid pooling onto Starscream's curled glossa, little rivulets spilling onto his chin. As the flow slows, Starscream swallows with every evidence of enjoyment and applies his mouth to ensuring no spillage goes free. Finally, when Megatron is moments from begging for mercy for once in his life, he draws back and smiles wickedly.

"You should be nice to me more often," says Megatron weakly, finally resetting his optics so everything was a little less blurry. "But I don't think I'd survive."

"I would hate to spoil you. However next time, if I didn't have to wait until you were a defeated shell of a mech to get my mouth on your spike that would be greatly appreciated." Starscream wipes the runnel  of transfluid from his chin and laps his thumb clean.

Megatron can only agree. "Even when you're being nice, Starscream, you are cruel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Starscream wants, Starscream gets. Especially when it's dick.


	30. Chain of Command (Threesome, Orgasm Delay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave struggles to unentangle himself from Starscream and Megatron's nonsense. So he gives up and joins in.

Hierarchy is normally sensible and efficient, and Soundwave approves of both things. He's _not_ sure he approves of Megatron's new fashion of affirming the hierarchy, which is to have him pinned to the war room tabletop with a hissing Starscream half bent over him and the warlord himself on top of that.   
  
Starscream keeps _wriggling_. It's very distracting.   
  
Megatron is currently grumbling something about not tolerating dissent in the ranks.  Soundwave thinks this is highly unfair, as he himself has been consistently loyal, even in the face of some rather harebrained schemes. Starscream, on the other hand, is a traitorous glitch whose deranged lust for power has crippled too many Decepticon missions and yet somehow lands himself in situations like this where - and here Soundwave is very grateful that his masks hide his expression - he is bent over with two of their master's digits rubbing in his valve.   
  
"It is becoming apparent," Megatron growls, shoving his servo forward so that Starscream yowls in Soundwave's audial. He turns the treble sensitivity down another four notches. "That we are having issues with the chain of command."   
  
Soundwave would like to deny this but Starscream's snarling reaches fever pitch to drown out his reply.   
  
"How shall I show you how this works?" Megatron does something that Soundwave suspects involves a third digit by the way the Air Commander gasps.   
  
The scent of rich lubricant is thick in the air, the fizzing sensation of burning charge palpable. Megatron's voice is deep, sonorous, and full of wicked intent, and even if Starscream is an absolute misery of a mech, he writhes like a well greased hydraulic on top of Soundwave's torso. As a result he’s almost disappointed when Megatron grabs the seeker by the wings and hauls him upwards so he is kneeling instead.   
  
"Soundwave," his master commands, "Open your array."   
  
_Well_. His plating slides open, well oiled by the runnels of his own lubricant. Above him Starscream is near incandescent with lust and irritation.   
  
"Why does he-?" He starts to wail, trying to grind his hips down onto Megatron's servo; predictably this earns him nothing.   
  
"Soundwave is obedient," snarls Megatron, yanking his digits free. "How will you match that?"   
  
"I have my slagging valve open already!"   
  
"Then open your spike instead." Megatron's digits are huge, stroking softly at the mesh of Soundwave's valve with a care very different to the cruelty with which he had initially shoved them into Starscream. Perhaps he recalled Soundwave's preference for a little warm up first. Perhaps it was because Soundwave _deserved_ a little more care.   
  
With a frustrated growl, Starscream manages to focus enough to retract with spike plating. His spike is trim and neat as it pressurises, red stripes down the sides and dark protoform a shadow beneath the white platelets. Having it out seems to ease some of the seeker's lust, for having both arrays active splits the charge. Starscream still moans, his normally screechy voice suddenly a subtle hum.   
  
"A lesson on cooperation first I think," says Megatron. "Soundwave, get this heap of scrap ready for my spike and I'll prepare you for his."   
  
Soundwave's vocaliser tremors around the glyphs of a complaint, but his frame is already sizzling with a building charge and Megatron's digit traces his anterior node in that way that always made his spinal struts shudder. So instead he reaches out and his questing servo finds one Seeker thigh, armour hot and tremulous.   
  
"Come on," moans Starscream. "Before I lose all my charge."   
  
Megatron's free servo slaps down hard on Starscream's aft. "Is that the way to talk to your fellow officer?"   
  
Amid Starscream's yelping is something resembling an apology. It's just about good enough for Soundwave, who slips his first two digits into Starscream's valve and crooks to find the hidden sensory plexus extending back from the seeker's own node. The valve is plump and slick around his sensitive digits, calipers flexing minutely against the pressure - he can imagine why Megatron is so keen to get a taste around his spike.   
  
Meanwhile, his own valve is currently under siege by heavy digits, slick with another’s lubricant. His thighs relax out as his mesh warms and his calipers click open minutely; he's feels small and tight around the intrusion, and he's privately not upset that it's not Megatron's spike that would be opening him out. It's a pity that the other option is Starscream, but, right now, made silent by his relentless rubbing of the anterior node chain the mech is infinitely more tolerable. HIs valve starts to ripple warningly, the sign of a mech about to overload, and Soundwave can feel the burn of the charge sizzle on his digits.   
  
Another big servo pulls his free abruptly, and Starscream bleats in loss, driving talons into Soundwave's shoulders.   
  
"You slagger!" he wails. "I was so close!"   
  
"Precisely," growls Megatron, withdrawing his other servo from Soundwave's valve. He is nowhere near as close, but still he shifts uncomfortably with the loss. "You'll get your overload when you deserve it, and not a nanoklik sooner."   
  
He arranges them more to his liking, hauling Soundwave closer to the edge of the table so he could fit Starscream between his thighs and push himself behind him. Soundwave curls a leg out to the side and hook the other behind Megatron's back, keen to show his usefulness if it meant someone got into his valve soon. Megatron's mouth curves in a understanding smirk, and then Starscream's neat spike is lining up with Soundwave's mesh. It slides in nicely, filling out the calipers to a satisfying stretch and slotting neatly against a deep cluster of nodes.   
  
It is good, a cable-relaxing, spark-curling sort of sensation to be full, and Soundwave is so thoroughly distracted he can ignore which mech it is that is filling him. Somehow his optics have flickered off; he manages to online them just in time to see Megatron to push his own spike into Starscream's valve. This noise is completely un-ignorable, like a jet engine had just sucked in a wrench, complete with spluttering and sparks, and Soundwave watches as Starscream's face twists into the most honest expression he has ever seen him wear. He looks completely disarmed and stunned, which seems fair given Soundwave's recollections of Megatron's spike.   
  
Starscream's own is much more manageable, a good size to bump the biggest sensors, driven up in a curve to bump a deep plexus everytime Starscream was shunted forwards. Soundwave encourages Megatron's rough starting pace - unkind to be sure but it means he gets the best of what is being doled out, considering that Starscream is still a stunned mess.   
  
But more than anything, Starscream is resilient. Gradually his expression morphs into determined pleasure, and his control over his own frame improves enough to shunt back onto Megatron's spike and then let himself be pushed forward on the next thrust forward. It is pleasurable for Soundwave, on the bottom of the pile, so he imagines that Starscream - with both arrays being used simultaneously - is feeling as much twofold.   
  
Certainly the seeker's field is climbing towards overload already, his vocaliser spitting static. His frame burns with charge, hot and demanding, and he writhes all the more, driving talons into Soundwave's shoulders with no regard for the mech beneath him. Soundwave mentally starts a countdown, almost keen to see the event.   
  
And then Megatron stops dead.   
  
"Now, now," he chuckles over Starscream's spitting rage. "How do we think hierarchy works Starscream?"   
  
Starscream's snarled response is something along the lines of Megatron being a greedy slagger, ruining others pleasure for his own selfish gain. This is accurate, Soundwave supposes, but probably not the exact wording his lord was thinking of.   
  
In the off chance it might push his own chance of overload up the schedule he answers instead, "Lord Megatron: first. All others after."   
  
"Very good, Soundwave," says Megatron, but his optics are narrowed at his attempt at cunning. Sometimes their master is irritatingly perceptive. "Myself, then my Second, then my Third." He thrusts forward hard and Starscream groans and clamps every inch of his plating down to help fight the urge to overload. "And if you cannot handle that, Starscream, then we will have issues."   
  
"I can handle it," growls Starscream, digging his talons in deeply. It helps take the edge off Soundwave's own arousal, although this is clearly not the intended effect. "Just move already"   
  
Megatron scoffs but starts to thrust again. Starscream groans and hitches his hips tightly into Soundwave with each shove and soon they're both back at the same damnable point again, charge burning and frame shaking. Starscream drops his head to Soundwave's chest when Megatron stops, waits for the pleasure to die away and starts again.   
  
For his part, Soundwave is rather stuck. He runs scalding hot, trapped beneath two mechs that are very attractive in very different ways. Starscream's spike slots just right inside him, even the scrape of claws on the glass of his chest plates is spice to the pleasure. Not even the repeated sharp clutch does much to dampen his arousal when Megatron stops a third time. Starscream's engines shriek in tandem with his vocaliser, and in self defense Soundwave shoves two of his digits into his maw to dampen some of the noise.   
  
_Oh_ but Starscream is _good_ with his glossa.   
  
The seething pressure of the impending overload is almost too much, given his current position. In desperation - he will not be shown up by Starscream of all mechs -Soundwaves pressurises his own spike, a soft murmur of relief easing from his vocaliser as the charge splits between his active arrays. His valve still throbs with each shunt between his legs, but now his spike is channelling power away, trapped against Starscream''s ventral plates and cables. For a moment, he feels a little less out of control.   
  
Starscream, on the other hand, has no hope. Trapped under their master's huge bulk and pinned to Soundwave's frame, he's jostled between the two of them by the ferocious pace of Megatron's thrusts. He sucks on the digits in his mouth to muffle his cries, offlines his optics, and still had been on the verge of overloading since the beginning. Now, after the stop-start routine, he is a desperate mech, his charge constantly brimming at overflow.   
  
Soundwave is starting to feel sympathetic. His plan had worked briefly, but the rub of Starscream's belly on his spike is building friction there, and it is taking a lot of force of will to prevent his valve clenching down in overload. There is little more he could do to delay the inevitable, so perhaps he would just have to speed the whole process along. He draws his pede against Megatron's spinal strut in that way the big mech had always liked and nuzzles his masked face into Starscream's helm vents, pulling his digits away to trail his servos along sensitive wing transformation seams. Testimony to how desperate Starscream is is the responding kiss that is pressed against the crease of his mask, his evil mouth nimble even in the grip of processor-crushing arousal.   
  
Above, optics smouldering dark and shuddering with the evidence of their lust, Megatron thrusts hard thrice more into Starscream's valve and overloads with a guttural roar. The spear of charge catapults Starscream into overload with a cry, channels directly from valve to spike and into Soundwave's own nodes. It is like getting hit with a hammer, as his whole frame locks and jolts, clenching around the spilling heat in his own depths.   
  
It has been a long time since Soundwave has felt overload from anything but his own digits. Doing it for himself is efficient, but lacks the inputs from a hot body against his own, crackling EM fields, choked moans in his audials. This is much more satisfying, and only with much practice and self control does he manage to remain silent.   
  
Atop of them Megatron's big, ultra efficient frame presses down heavily onto the table, blasting litres of hot vapour from his vents. Judging by Starscream's wriggling, a lot of this is condensing on his wings in a manner the seeker does not appreciate. Their master holds his ground and gradually Starscream's discomfort settles and he slumps in submission against Soundwave's chest.   
  
Megatron moves away eventually, depressurising out of Starscream's valve, and settles back into his chair. Atop Soundwave, Starscream remains in situ but he withdraws his own spike at least, so Soundwave can close his own valve plating.   
  
Not all the charge has dispersed from his spike, leaving it still mostly pressurised against his belly. Absently, like he isn't entirely aware of what he was doing, Starscream runs a delicate talon tip along the platelets, sending little jolt of electric when it skipped from gap to gap. His optics are dim with recent overload, and the normal nasty pinched look on his facial plates is relaxed. Like this he is almost handsome.   
  
"You should put that spike to good use," says Starscream, voice still imperious and demanding. Some things would never change. "And frag me."   
  
Soundwave is almost tempted to tell the wretch to go frag himself, but Megatron is watching from his chair thoughtfully, Starscream's frame is beautiful regardless of his personality and, well, hierarchy.   
  
Sometimes it works for his benefit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt Soundwave got the short end of the stick. Poor mech deserves a shag. 
> 
> Also he was Fine As Hell in the new Bumblebee film. Check out those THIGHS. 
> 
>  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Self Improvement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18290894) by [freakylemurcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat)




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